NEW  NEIGHBORS. 

"Who  can  have  taken  the  Ferguses'  house,  sister?"  said  a  brisk  little 
old  lady,  peeping  through  the  window  blinds.—  p.  7. 


WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS 


OR, 


THE  RECORDS  OF  AN  UNFASHIONABLE  STREET. 


(Sequel  to  "My  Wife  and  /.") 


A  NOVEL. 


BY  HARRrEt  BfefiCHER  STOWE. 

Author  of  '•Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  "My  Wife  and  /,"  etc. 


NEW   YORK: 
J.   B.    FORD    &    COMPANY. 


COPYRIGHT   A.D.    1875 


1816 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.— THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  STREET   ...  7 

II.— How  WE  BEGIN  LIFE 23 

III. — THE  FAMILY  DICTATOR  AT  WORK  ...  30 

IV. — EVA  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER  ....  42 

V. — AUNT  MARIA  ROUSES  A  TEMPEST  IN  A  TEAPOT  52 

VI. — THE  SETTLING  OF  THE  WATERS  ...  69 

VII. — LETTERS  AND  AIR-CASTLES       ....  78 

VIII. — THE  VANDERHEYDEN  FORTRESS  TAKEN       .  86 

IX. — JIM  AND  ALICE 95 

X. — MR.  ST.  JOHN        .        .        .        .        .  103 

XI. — AUNT  MARIA  CLEARS  HER  CONSCIENCE    .        .115 

XII.— "WHY  CAN'T  THEY  LET  Us  ALONE?"       .  131 

XIII. — OUR  "EVENING"  PROJECTED    ....  144 

XIV. — MR.  ST.  JOHN  is  OUTARGUED        .        .        .  152 

XV. — GETTING  READY  TO  BEGIN        ....  160 

XVI. — THE  MINISTER'S  VISIT 173 

XVII. — OUR  FIRST  THURSDAY 178 

XVIII. — RAKING  UP  THE  FIRE 192 

M  9500 


iv  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX. — A  LOST  SHEEP 197 

XX. — EVA  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER  ....  201 

XXI. — BOLTON   AND   ST.   JOHN         .            .            .            .            .  207 

XXII.— BOLTON  TO  CAROLINE  .....  214 
XXIII.— THE  SISTERS  OF  ST.  BARNABAS.        .        .        .221 

XXIV.— EVA  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER  ....  227 
XXV.— AUNT   MARIA   ENDEAVORS  TO   SET  MATTERS 

RIGHT 232 

XXVI. — SHE  STOOD  OUTSIDE  THE  GATE  ...  243 

XXVII.— ROUGH  HANDLING  OF  SORE  NERVES         .        .  253 

XXVIII.— REASON  AND  UNREASON       ....  262 

XXIX.— AUNT  MARIA  FREES  HER  MIND        .        .        .270 

XXX.— A  DINNER  ON  WASHING  DAY       ...  274 

XXXI.— WHAT  THEY  TALKED  ABOUT   .        .        .        .285 

XXXII.— A  MISTRESS  WITHOUT  A  MAID    .        .        .  296 

XXXIII. — A  FOUR-FOOTED  PRODIGAL        .        .        .        .  3°7 

XXXIV.— GOING  TO  THE  BAD 31? 

XXXV.— A  SOUL  IN  PERIL 328 

XXXVI. — LOVE  IN  CHRISTMAS  GREENS        .        .        .  339 

XXXVII.— THEREAFTER? 35° 

XXXVIII.— "WE  MUST  BE  CAUTIOUS"  ....  357 

XXXIX.— SAYS  SHE  TO  HER  NEIGHBOR— WHAT?     .        .  365 

XL. — THE  ENGAGEMENT  ANNOUNCED    .        .        .  369 

XLI. — LETTER  FROM  EVA  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER        .  375 

XLIL— JIM'S  FORTUNES 3§7 


CONTENTS.  v 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 


XLIII.— A.  MIDNIGHT  CAUCUS  OVER  THE  COALS  .        .    399 

XLIV.— FLUCTUATIONS 407 

XLV.—  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW.        .        .        .414 

XLVL—  WHAT  THEY  ALL  SAID  ABOUT  IT       .        .         418 

XLVII.—"  IN  THE  FORGIVENESS  OF  SINS"      .        .        .430 

XLVIII.— THE  PEARL  CROSS 439 

XLIX. — THE  UNPROTECTED  FEMALE     ....    448 

L. — EVA  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER  ....         461 

LI. — THE  HOUR  AND  THE  WOMAN  ....    465 

LII. — EVA'S  CONSULTATIONS 469 

LIII.—  WEDDING  PRESENTS 474 

LIV. — MARRIED  AND  A* 478 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


I. — NEW  NEIGHBORS Frontispiece. 

"  'Who  can  have  taken  the  Ferguses1  house,  sister?1  said  a 
brisk  little  old  lady,  peeping  through  the  window  blinds." 

PAGE 

II. — TALKING  IT  OVER 73 

"Come  now.  Puss,  out  with  it.  Why  that  anxious  brow? 
What  domestic  catastrophe  ?  " 

III. — THE  DOMESTIC  ARTIST .131 

"A  spray  of  ivy  that  was  stretching  towards  the  "window  had 
been  drawn  back  and  was  forced  to  wreathe  itself  around 
a  picture.11 

IV. — WICKEDNESS,  OR  MISERY? 197 

" Bolton  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and,  looking  down  on 
her,  said  :  'Poor  child,  have  you  no  mother?'1 " 

V. — CONFIDENCES 287 

'* In  due  course  followed  an  introduction  to  'my  wife,1  whose 
photograph  Mr.  Selby  wore  dutifully  in  his  coat-pocket." 

VI. — GOING  TO  THE  BAD 327 

"  The  sweet-faced  woman  calls  the  attention  of  her  husband. 
He  frowns,  whips  up  the  horse,  and  is  gone.  .  .  Bitter 
ness  possesses  Maggie's  soul.  .  .  Why  not  go  to  the  bad?" 

VII. — SKIRMISHING 34* 

"  '/  like  your  work1  he  said,  'better  than  you  do  mine1  '/ 
didn't  say  that  I  didn't  like  yours,1  said  Angie,  coloring" 

VIII.— A  MIDNIGHT  CAUCUS 4°c 

"  'There,  now  he's  off,1  said  Eva.  .  .  then,  leaning  back, 
she  began  taking  out  hair-pins  and  shaking  down  curls  and 
untying  ribbons  as  a  preface  to  a  wholly  free  conversation." 


WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE    OTHER   SIDE   OF    THE    STREET. 

"  T  T  7HO  can  have  taken  the  Ferguses'  house,  sister?" 

VV  said  a  brisk  little  old  lady,  peeping  through 
the  window  blinds.  "  It's  taken  !  Just  come  here  and 
look !  There's  a  cart  at  the  door. " 

"You  don't  say  so!"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  her  elder 
sister,  flying  across  the  room  to  the  window  blinds,  be 
hind  which  Mrs.  Betsey  sat  discreetly  ensconced  with 
her  knitting  work.  "Where?  Jack,  get  down,  sir!" 
This  last  remark  was  addressed  to  a  rough-coated  Dan- 
die  Dinmont  terrier,  who  had  been  winking  in  a  half 
doze  on  a  cushion  at  Miss  Dorcas's  feet.  On  the  first 
suggestion  that  there  was  something  to  be  looked  at 
across  the  street,  Jack  had  ticked  briskly  across  the 
room,  and  now  stood  on  his  hind  legs  on  an  old  em 
broidered  chair,  peering  through  the  slats  as  industri 
ously  as  if  his  opinion  had  been  requested.  "  Get  down, 
sir!"  persisted  Miss  Dorcas.  But  Jack  only  winked 
contumaciously  at  Mrs.  Betsey,  whom  he  justly  consid 
ered  in  the  light  of  an  ally,  planted  his  toe  nails  more 
firmly  in  the  embroidered  chair-bottom,  and  stuck  his 
nose  further  between  the  slats,  while  Mrs.  Betsey  took 
up  for  him,  as  he  knew  she  would. 

"  Do  let  the  dog  alone,  Dorcas !  He  wants  to  see  as 
much  as  anybody." 

"  Now,  Betsey,  how  am  I  ever  to  teach  Jack  not  to 


8  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

jump  on  these  chairs  if  you  will  always  take  his  part  ? 
Besides,  next  we  shall  know,  he'll  be  barking  through 
the  window  blinds,"  said  Miss  Dorcas. 

Mrs.  Betsey  replied  to  the  expostulation  by  making  a 
sudden  diversion  of  subject.  "Oh,  look,  look!"  she 
,  "  that^mHs.fc  'b&  she"  as  a  face  with  radiant,  dark 
me'd  m'^n  -  aureole  of  bright  golden  hair,  ap- 
peareoV  .in-  ,the  •  dqor.way  Vof  the  house  across  the  street. 
.<tSHe>s"a".preUy--ere*aiure,  anyway — much  prettier  than 
poor  dear  Mrs.  Fergus." 

"Henderson, you  say  the  name  is?"  said  Miss  Dorcas. 

"  Yes.  Simons,  the  provision  man  at  the  corner,  told 
me  that  the  house  had  been  bought  by  a  young  editor,  or 
something  of  that  sort,  named  Henderson — somebody 
that  writes  for  the  papers.  He  married  Van  Arsdel's 
daughter." 

"  What,  the  Van  Arsdels  that  failed  last  spring  ?  One 
of  our  mushroom  New  York  aristocracy — up  to-day  and 
down  to-morrow!"  commented  Miss  Dorcas,'with  an  air 
of  superiority.  "  Poor  things!" 

"A  very  imprudent  marriage,  I  don't  doubt,"  sighed 
Mrs.  Betsey.  "  These  upstart  modern  families  never 
bring  up  their  girls  to  do  anything." 

"  She  seems  to  be  putting  her  hand  to  the  plough, 
though,"  said  Miss  Dorcas.  "  See,  she  actually  is  lifting 
out  that  package  herself !  Upon  my  word,  a  very  pretty 
creature.  I  think  we  must  take  her  up." 

"The  Ferguses  were  nice,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,^4  though 
he  was  only  a  newspaper  man,  and  she  was  a  nobody ; 
but  she  really  did  quite  answer  the  purpose  for  a  neigh 
bor — not,  of  course,  one  of  our  sort  exactly,  but  a  very 
respectable,  lady-like  little  body." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  reflectively,  "I  always  said 
it  doesn't  do  to  carry  exclusiveness  too  far.  Poor  dear 
Papa  was  quite  a  democrat.  He  often  said  that  he  had 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  STREET.  9 

seen  quite  good  manners  and  real  refinement  in  people 
of  the  most  ordinary  origin." 

"And,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  "if  one  is  to  be 
too  particular,  one  doesn't  get  anybody  to  associate  with. 
The  fact  is,  the  good  old  families  we  used  to  visit  have 
either  died  off  or  moved  off  up  into  the  new  streets,  and 
one  does  like  to  have  somebody  to  speak  to." 

"  Look  there,  Betsey,  do  you  suppose  that's  Mr. 
Henderson  that's  coming  down  the  street?"  said  Miss 
Dorcas. 

"Dear  me!"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  in  an  anxious  flutter. 
"  Why,  there  are  two  of  them — they  are  both  taking  hold 
to  lift  out  that  bureau — see  there!  Now  she's  put  her 
head  out  of  the  chamber  window  there,  and  is  speaking 
to  them.  What  a  pretty  color  her  hair  is!" 

At  this  moment  the  horse  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street  started  prematurely,  for  some  reason  best  known  to 
himself,  and  the  bureau  came  down  with  a  thud;  and 
Jack,  who  considered  his  opinion  as  now  called  for, 
barked  frantically  through  the  blinds. 

Miss  Dorcas  seized  his  muzzle  energetically  and 
endeavored  to  hold  his  jaws  together,  but  he  still  barked 
in  a  smothered  and  convulsive  manner ;  whereat  the  good 
lady  swept  him,  vi  et  armis,  from  his  perch,  and  disci 
plined  him  vigorously,  forcing  him  to  retire  to  his  cushion 
in  a  distant  corner,  where  he  still  persistently  barked. 

"Oh,  poor  doggie!"  sighed  Mrs.  Betsey.  "Dorcas, 
how  can  you?" 

"How  can  I?"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  in  martial  tones. 
"  Betsey  Ann  Benthusen,  this  dog  would  grow  up  a  per 
fect  pest  of  this  neighborhood  if  I  left  him  to  you.  He 
must  learn  not  to  get  up  and  bark  through  those  blinds. 
It  isn't  so  much  matter  now  the  windows  are  shut,  but 
the  habit  is  the  thing.  Who  wants  to  have  a  dog  firing  a 
fusillade  when  your  visitors  come  up  the  front  steps — 


10  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

barking-enough-to-split-one's-head-open,"  added  Miss 
Dorcas,  turning  upon  the  culprit,  with  a  severe  staccato 
designed  to  tell  upon  his  conscience. 

Jack  bowed  his  head  and  rolled  his  great  soft  eyes  at 
her  through  a  silvery  thicket  of  hair. 

"  You  are  a  very  naughty  dog,"  she  added,  impress 
ively. 

Jack  sat  up  on  his  haunches  and  waved  his  front  paws 
in  a  deprecating  manner  to  Miss  Dorcas,  and  the  good 
lady  laughed  and  said,  cheerily,  "  Well,  well,  Jacky,  be  a 
good  dog  now,  and  we  '11  be  friends." 

And  Jacky  wagged  his  tail  in  the  most  demonstrative 
manner,  and  frisked  with  triumphant  assurance  of  re 
stored  favor.  It  was  the  usual  end  of  disciplinary  strug 
gles  with  him.  Miss  Dorcas  sat  down  to  a  bit  of  worsted 
work  on  which  she  had  been  busy  when  her  attention  was 
first  called  to  the  window. 

Mrs.  Betsey,  however,  with  her  nose  close  to  the  win 
dow  blinds,  continued  to  announce  the  state  of  things 
over  the  way  in  short  jets  of  communication. 

"  There  !  the  gentlemen  are  both  gone  in — and  there  ! 
the  cart  has  driven  off.  Now,  they  've  shut  the  front 
door,"  etc. 

After  this  came  a  pause  of  a  few  moments,  in  which 
both  sisters  worked  in  silence. 

"  I  wonder,  now,  which  of  those  two  was  the  husband," 
said  Mrs.  Betsey  at  last,  in  a  slow  reflective  tone,  as  if 
she  had  been  maturely  considering  the  subject. 

In  the  mean  time  it  had  occurred  to  Miss  Dorcas 
that  this  species  of  minute  inquisition  into  the  affairs  of 
neighbors  over  the  way  was  rather  a  compromising  of  her 
dignity,  and  she  broke  out  suddenly  from  a  high  moral 
perch  on  her  unconscious  sister. 

"  Betsey,"  she  said,  with  severe  gravity,  "  I  really  sup 
pose  it 's  no  concern  of  ours  what  goes  on  over  at  the 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  STREET.  H 

other  house.  Poor  dear  Papa  used  to  say  if  there  was 
anything  that  was  unworthy  a  true  lady  it  was  a  disposi 
tion  to  gossip.  Our  neighbors'  affairs  are  nothing  to  us. 
I  think  it  is  Mrs.  Chapone  who  says,  '  A  well-regulated 
mind  will  repress  curiosity.'  Perhaps,  Betsey,  it  would 
be  well  to  go  on  with  our  daily  reading." 

Mrs.  Betsey,  as  a  younger  sister,  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  these  sudden  pullings-up  of  the  moral  check- 
rein  from  Miss  Dorcas,  and  received  them  as  meekly  as 
a  well-bitted  pony.  She  rose  immediately,  and,  laying 
down  her  knitting  work,  turned  to  the  book-case.  It 
appears  that  the  good  souls  were  diversifying  their  lei 
sure  hours  by  reading  for  the  fifth  or  sixth  time  that 
enlivening  poem,  Young's  Night  Thoughts.  So,  tak 
ing  down  a  volume  from  the  book-shelves  and  opening 
to  a  mark,  Mrs.  Betsey  commenced  a  sonorous  expostu 
lation  to  Alonzo  on  the  value  of  time.  The  good  lady's 
manner  of  rendering  poetry  was  in  a  high-pitched  fal 
setto,  with  inflections  of  a  marvelous  nature,  rising  in 
the  earnest  parts  almost  to  a  howl.  In  her  youth  she 
had  been  held  to  possess  a  talent  for  elocution,  and  had 
been  much  commended  by  the  amateurs  of  her  times  as 
a  reader  of  almost  professional  merit.  The  decay  of  her 
vocal  organs  had  been  so  gradual  and  gentle  that  neither 
sister  had  perceived  the  change  of  quality  in  her  voice, 
or  the  nervous  tricks  of  manner  which  had  grown  upon 
her,  till  her  rendering  of  poetry  resembled  a  preternatural 
hoot.  Miss  Dorcas  beat  time  with  her  needle  and  list 
ened  complacently  to  the  mournful  adjurations,  while 
Jack,  crouching  himself  with  his  nose  on  his  forepaws, 
winked  very  hard  and  surveyed  Miss  Betsey  with  an  un 
easy  excitement,  giving  from  time  to  time  low  growls  as 
her  voice  rose  in  emphatic  places ;  and  finally,  as  if  even 
a  dog's  patience  could  stand  it  no  longer,  he  chorused  a 
startling  point  with  a  sharp  yelp ! 


12  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  There ! "  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  throwing  down  the 
book.  "  What  is  the  reason  Jack  never  likes  me  to  read 
poetry  ?  " 

Jack  sprang  forward  as  the  book  was  thrown  down, 
and  running  to  Mrs.  Betsey,  jumped  into  her  lap  and 
endeavored  to  kiss  her  in  a  most  tumultuous  and  excited 
manner,  as  an  expression  of  his  immense  relief. 

"  There !  there  !  Jacky,  good  fellow — down,  down  ! 
Why,  how  odd  it  is !  I  can't  think  what  excites  him  so  in 
my  reading,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey.  "  It  must  be  something 
that  he  notices  in  my  intonations,"  she  added,  innocently. 

The  two  sisters  we  have  been  looking  in  upon  are 
worthy  of  a  word  of  introduction.  There  are  in  every 
growing  city  old  houses  that  stand  as  breakwaters  in  the 
tide  of  modem  improvement,  and  may  be  held  as  for 
tresses  in  which  the  past  entrenches  itself  against  the 
never-ceasing  encroachments  of  the  present.  The  house 
in  which  the  conversation  just  recorded  has  taken  place 
was  one  of  these.  It  was  a  fragment  of  ancient  primitive 
New  York  known  as  the  old  Vanderheyden  house,  only 
waiting  the  death  of  old  Miss  Dorcas  Vanderheyden  and 
her  sister,  Mrs.  Betsey  Benthusen,  to  be  pulled  down  and 
made  into  city  lots  and  squares. 

Time  was  when  the  Vanderheyden  house  was  the 
country  seat  of  old  Jacob  Vanderheyden,  a  thriving 
Dutch  merchant,  who  lived  there  with  somewhat  foreign 
ideas  of  style  and  stateliness. 

Parks  and  gardens  and  waving  trees  had  encircled  it, 
but  the  city  limits  had  gained  upon  it  through  three 
generations ;  squares  and  streets  had  been  opened 
through  its  grounds,  till  now  the  house  itself  and  the 
garden-patch  in  the  rear  was  all  that  remained  of  the 
ancient  domain.  Innumerable  schemes  of  land  spec 
ulators  had  attacked  the  old  place ;  offers  had  been 
insidiously  made  to  the  proprietors  which  would  have 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  STREET.  13 

put  them  in  possession  of  dazzling  wealth,  but  they  gal 
lantly  maintained  their  position.  It  is  true  their  income 
in  ready  money  was  but  scanty,  and  their  taxes  had, 
year  by  year,  grown  higher  as  the  value  of  the  land 
increased.  Modern  New  York,  so  to  speak,  foamed  and 
chafed  like  a  great  red  dragon  before  the  old  house, 
waiting  to  make  a  mouthful  of  it,  but  the  ancient  prin 
cesses  within  bravely  held  their  own  and  refused  to  par 
ley  or  capitulate. 

Their  life  was  wholly  in  the  past,  with  a  generation 
whose  bones  had  long  rested  under  respectable  tomb 
stones.  Their  grandfather  on  their  mother's  side  had 
been  a  signer  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence;  their 
grandfather  on  the  paternal  side  was  a  Dutch  merchant 
of  some  standing  in  early  New  York,  a  friend  and  cor 
respondent  of  Alexander  Hamilton's  and  a  co-worker 
with  him  in  those  financial  schemes  by  which  the  treasury 
of  the  young  republic  of  America  was  first  placed  on  a 
solid  basis.  Old  Jacob  did  good  service  in  negotiating 
loans  in  Holland,  and  did  not  omit  to  avail  himself  of 
the  golden  opportunities  which  the  handling  of  a  nation's 
wealth  presents.  He  grew  rich  and  great  in  the  land, 
and  was  implicitly  revered  in  his  own  family  as  being  one 
of  the  nurses  and  founders  of  the  American  Republic. 
In  the  ancient  Dutch  secretary  which  stood  in  the  corner 
of  the  sitting-room  where  our  old  ladies  spent  their  time 
were  many  letters  from  noted  names  of  a  century  or  so 
back — papers  yellow  with  age,  but  whose  contents  were 
all  alive  with  the  foam  and  fresh  turbulence  of  what  was 
then  the  existing  life  of  the  period. 

Mrs.  Betsey  Benthusen  was  a  younger  sister  and  a 
widow.  She  had  been  a  beauty  in  her  girlhood,  and  so 
much  younger  than  her  sister  that  Miss  Dorcas  felt  all 
the  pride  and  interest  of  a  mother  in  her  success,  in  her 
lovers,  in  her  marriage ;  and  when  that  marriage  proved  a 


14  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

miserable  failure,  uniting  her  to  a  man  who  wasted  her 
fortune  and  neglected  her  person,  and  broke  her  heart, 
Miss  Dorcas  received  her  back  to  her  strong  arms  and 
made  a  home  and  a  refuge  where  the  poor  woman  could 
gather  up  and  piece  together,  in  some  broken  fashion, 
the  remains  of  her  life  as  one  mends  a  broken  Sevres 
china  tea  cup. 

Miss  Dorcas  was  by  nature  of  a  fiery,  energetic  tem 
perament,  intense  and  original — precisely  the  one  to  be  a 
contemner  of  customs  and  proprieties ;  but  a  very  severe 
and  rigid  education  had  imposed  on  her  every  yoke  of 
the  most  ancient  and  straitest-laced  decorum.  She  had 
been  nurtured  only  in  such  savory  treatises  as  Dr.  Greg 
ory's  Legacy  to  his  Daughters,  Mrs.  Chapone's  Letters, 
Miss  Hannah  More's  Cczlebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife,  Watts 
On  the  Mind,  and  other  good  books  by  which  our  great 
grandmothers  had  their  lives  all  laid  out  for  them  in 
exact  squares  and  parallelograms,  and  were  taught  exact 
ly  what  to  think  and  do  in  all  possible  emergencies. 

But,  as  often  happens,  the  original  nature  of  Miss 
Dorcas  was  apt  to  break  out  here  and  there,  all  the  more 
vivaciously  for  repression,  in  a  sort  of  natural  geyser: 
and  so,  though  rigidly  proper  in  the  main,  she  was  apt  to 
fall  into  delightful  spasms  of  naturalness. 

Notwithstanding  all  the  remarks  of  Mrs.  Chapone 
and  Dr.  Watts  about  gossip,  she  still  had  a  hearty  and 
innocent  interest  in  the  pretty  young  housekeeper  that 
was  building  a  nest  opposite  to  her,  and  a  little  quite 
harmless  curiosity  in  what  was  going  on  over  the  way. 

A  great  deal  of  good  sermonizing,  by  the  by,  is  ex 
pended  on  gossip,  which  is  denounced  as  one  of  the 
seven  deadly  sins  of  society ;  but,  after  all,  gossip  has  its 
better  side :  if  not  a  Christian  grace,  it  certainly  is  one 
of  those  weeds  which  show  a  good  warm  soil. 

The  kindly  heart,  that  really  cares  for  everything  hu- 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  STREET.  15 

man  it  meets,  inclines  toward  gossip,  in  a  good  way. 
Just  as  a  morning  glory  throws  out  tendrils,  and  climbs 
up  and  peeps  cheerily  into  your  window,  so  a  kindly 
gossip  can't  help  watching  the  opening  and  shutting  of 
your  blinds  and  the  curling  smoke  from  your  chimney. 
And  so,  too,  after  all  the  high  morality  of  Miss  Dorcas, 
the  energetic  turning  of  her  sister  to  the  paths  of  pro 
priety,  and  the  passage  from  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  with 
its  ponderous  solemnity,  she  was  at  heart  kindly  musing 
upon  the  possible  fortunes  of  the  pretty  young  creature 
across  the  street,  and  was  as  fresh  and  ready  to  take  up 
the  next  bit  of  information  about  her  house  as  a  brisk 
hen  is  to  discuss  the  latest  bit  of  crumb  thrown  from  a 
window. 

Miss  Dorcas  had  been  brought  up  by  her  father  in 
diligent  study  of  the  old  approved  English  classics.  The 
book-case  of  the  sitting-room  presented  in  gilded  order 
old  editions  of  the  Rambler,  the  Tattler,  and  the  Spectator, 
the  poems  of  Pope,  and  Dryden,  and  Milton,  and  Shakes 
peare,  and  Miss  Dorcas  and  her  sister  were  well  versed 
in  them  all.  And  in  view  of  the  whole  of  our  modern 
literature,  we  must  say  that  their  studies  might  have  been 
much  worse  directed. 

Their  father  had  unfortunately  been  born  too  early  to 
enjoy  Walter  Scott.  There  is  an  age  when  a  man  cannot 
receive  a  new  author  or  a  new  idea.  Like  a  lilac  bush 
which  has  made  its  terminal  buds,  he  has  grown  all  he 
can  in  this  life,  and  there  is  no  use  in  trying  to  force  him 
into  a  new  growth.  Jacob  Vanderheyden  died  consider 
ing  Scott's  novels  as  the  flimsy  trash  of  the  modern 
school,  while  his  daughters  hid  them  under  their  pillows, 
and  found  them  all  the  more  delightful  from  the  vague 
sensation  of  sinfulness  which  was  connected  with  their 
admiration.  Walter  Scott  was  their  most  modern  land 
mark  ;  youth  and  bloom  and  heedlessness  and  impropri- 


16  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

etywere  all  delightfully  mixed  up  with  their  reminiscences 
of  him — and  now,  here  they  were  still  living  in  an  age 
which  has  shelved  Walter  Scott  among  the  classics,  and 
reads  Dickens  and  Thackeray  and  Anthony  Trollope. 

Miss  Dorcas  had  been  stranded,  now  and  then,  on 
one  of  these  "  trashy  moderns  " — had  sat  up  all  night  sur 
reptitiously  reading  Nicholas  Nickleby,  and  had  hidden 
the  book  from  Mrs.  Betsey  lest  her  young  mind  should 
be  carried  away,  until  she  discovered,  by  an  accidental 
remark,  that  Mrs.  Betsey  had  committed  the  same  de 
lightful  impropriety  while  off  on  a  visit  to  a  distant  rel 
ative.  When  the  discovery  became  mutual,  from  time 
to  time  other  works  of  the  same  author  crept  into  the 
house  in  cheap  pamphlet  editions,  and  the  perusal  of 
them  was  apologized  for  by  Miss  Dorcas  to  Mrs.  Betsey, 
as  being  well  enough,  now  and  then,  to  see  what  people 
were  reading  in  these  trashy  times.  Ah,  what  is  fame! 
Are  not  Dickens  and  Thackeray  and  Trollope  on  their 
inevitable  way  to  the  same  dusty  high  shelf  in  the  library, 
where  they  will  be  praised  and  not  read  by  the  forth 
coming  jeunesse  of  the  future  ? 

If  the  minds  of  the  ancient  sisters  were  a  museum  of 
by-gone  ideas,  and  literature,  and  tastes,  the  old  Vander- 
heyden  house  was  no  less  a  museum  of  by-gone  furni 
ture.  The  very  smell  of  the  house  was  ghostly  with  past 
suggestion.  Every  article  of  household  gear  in  it  had 
grown  old  together  with  all  the  rest,  standing  always  in 
the  same  spot,  subjected  to  the  same  minute  daily  dusting 
and  the  same  semi-annual  house-cleaning. 

Carlyle  has  a  dissertation  on  the  "  talent  for  annihi 
lating  rubbish."  This  was  a  talent  that  the  respectable 
Miss  Dorcas  had  none  of.  Carlyle  thinks  it  a  fine  thing 
to  have ;  but  we  think  the  lack  of  it  may  come  from  very 
respectable  qualities.  In  Miss  Dorcas  it  came  from  a 
vivid  imagination  of  the  possible  future  uses  to  which 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  STREET.  17 

every  decayed  or  broken  household  article  might  be  put. 
The  pitcher  without  nose  or  handle  was  fine  china,  and 
might  yet  be  exactly  the  thing  for  something,  and  so  it 
went  carefully  on  some  high  perch  of  preservation,  dis 
membered  ;  the  half  of  a  broken  pair  of  snuffers  certainly 
looked  too  good  to  throw  away — possibly  it  might  be  the 
exact  thing  needed  to  perfect  some  invention.  Miss 
Dorcas  vaguely  remembered  legends  of  inventors  who 
had  laid  hold  on  such  chance  adaptations  at  the  very 
critical  point  of  their  contrivances,  and  so  the  half  snuffers 
waited  years  for  their  opportunity.  The  upper  shelves 
of  the  closets  in  the  Vanderheyden  house  were  a  perfect 
crowded  mustering  ground  for  the  incurables  and  inca- 
pables  of  household  belongings.  One  might  fancy  them 
a  Hotel  des  Invalides  of  things  wounded  and  fractured 
in  the  general  battle  of  life.  There  were  blades  of  knives 
without  handles,  and  handles  without  blades ;  there  were 
ancient  tea-pots  that  leaked — but  might  be  mended,  and 
doubtless  would  be  of  some  good  in  a  future  day ;  there 
were  cracked  plates  and  tea-cups ;  there  were  china  dish- 
covers  without  dishes  to  match ;  a  coffee-mill  that 
wouldn't  grind,  and  shears  that  wouldn't  cut,  and  snuf 
fers  that  wouldn't  snuff — in  short,  every  species  of  de 
cayed  utility. 

Miss  Dorcas  had  in  the  days  of  her  youth  been  blest 
with  a  brother  of  an  active,  inventive  turn  of  mind ;  the 
secret  crypts  and  recesses  of  the  closets  bore  marks  of 
his  unfinished  projections.  There  were  all  the  wheels 
and  weights  and  other  internal  confusions  of  a  clock, 
which  he  had  pulled  to  pieces  with  a  view  of  introducing 
an  improvement  into  the  machinery,  which  never  was  in 
troduced  ;  but  the  wheels  and  weights  were  treasured  up 
with  pious  care,  waiting  for  somebody  to  put  them  together 
again.  All  this  array  of  litter  was  fated  to  come  down 
from  its  secret  recesses,  its  deep,  dark  closets,  its  high 


18  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

shelves  and  perches,  on  two  solemn  days  of  the  year  de 
voted  to  house-cleaning,  when  Miss  Dorcas,  like  a  good 
general,  looked  them  over  and  reviewed  them,  expatiated 
on  their  probable  capabilities,  and  resisted  gallantly  any 
suggestions  of  Black  Dinah,  the  cook  and  maid  of  all 
work,  or  Mrs.  Betsey,  that  some  order  ought  to  be  taken 
to  rid  the  house  of  them. 

"  Dear  me,  Dorcas,"  Mrs.  Betsey  would  say,  "  what  is 
the  use  of  keeping  such  a  clutter  and  litter  of  things  that 
nothing  can  be  done  with  and  that  never  can  be  used?" 

"Betsey  Ann  Benthusen,"  would  be  the  reply,  "you 
always  were  a  careless  little  thing.  You  never  under 
stood  any  more  about  housekeeping  than  a  canary  bird 
— not  a  bit."  In  Miss  Dorcas's  view,  Mrs.  Betsey,  with 
her  snow  white  curls  and  her  caps,  was  still  a  frivolous 
young  creature,  not  fit  to  be  trusted  with  a  serious  opin 
ion  on  the  nicer  points  of  household  management. 
"  Now,  who  knows,  Betsey,  but  some  time  we  may  meet 
some  poor  worthy  young  man  who  may  be  struggling 
along  as  an  inventor  and  may  like  to  have  these  wheels 
and  weights !  I'm  sure  brother  Dick  said  they  were 
wonderfully  well  made." 

"  Well,  but,  Dorcas,  all  those  cracked  cups  and  broken 
pitchers;  I  do  think  they  are  dreadful!" 

"  Now,  Betsey,  hush  up !  I've  heard  of  a  kind  of 
new  cement  that  they  are  manufacturing  in  London,  that 
makes  old  china  better  than  new ;  and  when  they  get  it 
over  here  I'm  going  to  mend  these  all  up.  You  wouldn't 
have  me  throw  away  family  china,  would  you?" 

The  word  "family  china  "  was  a  settler,  for  both  Mrs. 
Betsey  and  Miss  Dorcas  and  old  Dinah  were  united  in 
one  fundamental  article  of  faith :  that  "  the  Family  "  was 
a  solemn,  venerable  and  awe-inspiring  reality.  What,  or 
why,  or  how  it  was,  no  mortal  could  say. 

Old  Jacob  Vanderheyden,  the  grandfather,  had  been 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  STREET.  19 

in  his  day  busy  among  famous  and  influential  men,  and 
had  even  been  to  Europe  as  a  sort  of  attache  to  the  first 
American  diplomatic  corps.  He  had  been  also  a  thriving 
merchant,  and  got  to  himself  houses,  and  lands,  and  gold 
and  silver.  Jacob  Vanderheyden,  the  father,  had  inher 
ited  substance  and  kept  up  the  good  name  of  the  family, 
and  increased  and  strengthened  its  connections.  But  his 
son  and  heir,  Dick  Vanderheyden,  Miss  Dorcas's  elder 
brother,  had  seemed  to  have  no  gifts  but  those  of  dispers 
ing;  and  had  muddled  away  the  family  fortune  in  all  sorts 
of  speculations  and  adventures  as  fast  as  his  father  and 
grandfather  had  made  it.  The  sisters  had  been  left  with 
an  income  much  abridged  by  the  imprudence  of  the 
brother  and  the  spendthrift  dissipation  of  Mrs.  Betsey's 
husband ;  they  were  forsaken  by  the  retreating  waves  of 
rank  and  fashion ;  their  house,  instead  of  being  a  center 
of  good  society,  was  encompassed  by  those  ordinary 
buildings  devoted  to  purposes  of  trade  whose  presence  is 
deemed  incompatible  with  genteel  residence.  And  yet, 
through  it  all,  their  confidence  in  the  rank  and  position 
of  their  family  continued  unabated.  The  old  house,  with 
every  bit  of  old  queer  furniture  in  it,  the  old  window 
curtains,  the  old  tea-cups  and  saucers,  the  old  bed 
spreads  and  towels,  all  had  a  sacredness  such  as  per 
tained  to  no  modern  things.  Like  the  daughter  of  Zion 
in  sacred  song,  Miss  Dorcas  "  took  pleasure  in  their  dust 
and  favored  the  stones  thereof."  The  old  blue  willow- 
patterned  china,  with  mandarins  standing  in  impossible 
places,  and  bridges  and  pagodas  growing  up,  as  the  world 
was  made,  out  of  nothing,  was  to  Miss  Dorcas  consecrat 
ed  porcelain — even  its  broken  fragments  were  impreg 
nated  with  the  sacred  flavor  of  ancient  gentility. 

Miss  Dorcas's  own  private  and  personal  closets, 
drawers,  and  baskets  were  squirrel's-nests  of  all  sorts  of 
memorials  of  the  past.  There  were  pieces  of  every 


20  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

gown  she  had  ever  worn,  of  all  her  sister's  gowns,  and 
of  the  mortal  habiliments  of  many  and  many  a  one 
beside  who  had  long  passed  beyond  the  need  of  earthly 
garments.  Bits  of  wedding  robes  of  brides  who  had 
long  been  turned  to  dust;  fragments  of  tarnished  gold 
lace  from  old  court  dresses;  faded,  crumpled,  artificial 
flowers,  once  worn  on  the  head  of  beauty;  gauzes  and 
tissues,  old  and  wrinkled,  that  had  once  set  off  the  tri 
umphs  of  the  gay — all  mingled  in  her  crypts  and  drawers 
and  trunks,  and  each  had  its  story.  Each,  held  in  her 
withered  hand,  brought  back  to  memory  the  thread  of 
some  romance  warm  with  the  color  and  flavor  of  a  life 
long  passed  away. 

Then  there  were  collections,  saving  and  medicinal; 
for  Miss  Dorcas  had  in  great  force  that  divine  instinct 
of  womanhood  that  makes  her  perceptive  of  the  healing 
power  inherent  in  all  things.  Never  an  orange  or  an 
apple  was  pared  on  her  premises  when  the  peeling  was 
not  carefully  garnered — dried  on  newspaper,  and  neatly 
stored  away  in  paper  bags  for  sick-room  uses. 

There  were  closets  smelling  of  elderblow,  catnip, 
feverfew,  and  dried  rose  leaves,  which  grew  in  a  bit  of 
old  garden  soil  back  of  the  house;  a  spot  sorely  re 
trenched  and  cut  down  from  the  ample  proportions  it 
used  to  have,  as  little  by  little  had  been  sold  off,  but  still 
retaining  a  few  growing  things,  in  which  Miss  Dorcas 
delighted.  The  lilacs  that  once  were  bushes  there  had 
grown  gaunt  and  high,  and  looked  in  at  the  chamber 
windows  with  an  antique  and  grandfatherly  air,  quite  of 
a  piece  with  everything  else  about  the  old  Vanderheyden 
house. 

The  ancient  sisters  had  few  outlets  into  the  society 
of  modern  New  York.  Now  and  then,  a  stray  visit  came 
from  some  elderly  person  who  still  remembered  the  Van- 
derheydens,  and  perhaps  about  once  a  year  they  went  to 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  STREET.  21 

the  expense  of  a  carriage  to  return  the  call,  and  rolled 
up  into  the  new  part  of  the  town  like  shadows  of  the 
past.  But  generally  their  path  of  life  led  within  the  nar 
row  limits  of  the  house.  Old  Dinah,  the  sole  black  ser 
vant  remaining,  was  the  last  remnant  of  a  former  retinue 
of  negro  servants  held  by  old  Jacob  when  New  York  was 
a  slave  State  and  a  tribe  of  black  retainers  was  one  of 
the  ostentations  of  wealth.  All  were  gone  now,  and 
only  Dinah  remained,  devoted  to  the  relics  of  the  old 
family,  clinging  with  a  cat-like  attachment  to  the  old 
place. 

She  was  like  many  of  her  race,  a  jolly-hearted,  pig 
headed,  giggling,  faithful  old  creature,  who  said  "  Yes'm  " 
to  Miss  Dorcas  and  took  her  own  way  about  most  mat 
ters  ;  and  Miss  Dorcas,  satisfied  that  her  way  was  not  on 
the  whole  a  bad  one  in  the  ultimate  results,  winked  at 
her  free  handling  of  orders,  and  consented  to  accept  her, 
as  we  do  Nature,  for  what  could  be  got  out  of  her. 

"  They  are  going  to  have  mince-pie  and  broiled 
chicken  for  dinner  over  there,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  when 
the  two  ladies  were  seated  at  their  own  dinner-table 
that  day. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  know  that  ?  "  asked  Miss 
Dorcas. 

"  Well !  Dinah  met  their  girl  in  at  the  provision  store 
and  struck  up  an  acquaintance,  and  went  in  to  help  her 
put  up  a  bedstead,  and  so  she  stopped  a  while  in  the 
kitchen.  The  tall  gentleman  with  black  hair  is  the  hus 
band — I  thought  all  the  while  he  was,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey. 
"  The  other  one  is  a  Mr.  Fellows,  a  great  friend  of  theirs, 
Mary  says-* " 

"Mary! — who  is  Mary?"  said  Miss  Dorcas. 

"Why,  Mary  Me  Arthur,  their  girl — they  only  keep 
one,  but  she  has  a  little  daughter  about  eight  years  old 
to  help.  I  wish  we  had  a  little  girl,  or  something  that  one 


22  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

might  train  for  a  waiter  to  answer  door-bells  and  do 
little  things." 

"  Our  door-bells  don 't  call  for  much  attention,  and  a 
little  girl  is  nothing  but  a  plague,"  interposed  Miss 
Dorcas. 

"Dinah  has  quite  fallen  in  love  with  Mrs.  Hender 
son,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey;  "she  says  that  she  is  the  hand 
somest,  pleasantest-spoken  lady  she's  seen  for  a  great 
while." 

"  We  '11  call  upon  her  when  they  get  well  settled,"  said 
Miss  Dorcas,  definitively. 

Miss  Dorcas  settled  this  with  the  air  of  a  princess. 
She  felt  that  such  a  meritorious  little,  person  as  the  one 
over  the  way  ought  to  be  encouraged  by  people  of  good 
old  families. 

Our  readers  will  observe  that  Miss  Dorcas  listened 
without  remonstrance  and  with  some  appearance  of  in 
terest  to  the  items  about  minced  pie  and  broiled  chicken ; 
but  high  moral  propriety,  as  we  all  know,  is  a  very  cold, 
windy  height,  and  if  a  person  is  planted  on  it  once  or 
twice  a  day,  it  is  as  much  as  ought  to  be  demanded  of 
human  weakness. 

For  the  rest  of  the  time  one  should  be  allowed,  like 
Miss  Dorcas,  to  repose  upon  one's  laurels.  And,  after 
all,  it  is  interesting,  when  life  is  moving  in  a  very  stag 
nant  current,  even  to  know  what  your  neighbor  has  for 
dinner ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

HOW   WE    BEGIN    LIFE. 

(Letter  from  Eva  Henderson  to  Isabelle  Courtney?) 

MY  DEAR  BELLE  :  Well,  here  we  are,  Harry  and  I, 
all  settled  down  to  housekeeping  quite  like  old 
folks.  All  is  about  done  but  the  last  things, — those  little 
touches,  and  improvements,  and  alterations  that  go  off  in 
to  airy  perspective.  I  believe  it  was  Carlyle  that  talked 
about  an  "  infinite  shoe-black  "  whom  all  the  world  could 
not  quite  satisfy  so  but  that  there  would  always  be  a 
next  thing  in  the  distance.  Well,  perhaps  it 's  going  to  be 
so  in  housekeeping,  and  I  shall  turn  out  an  infinite  house 
keeper;  for  I  find  this  little,  low-studded,  unfashionable 
home  of  ours,  far  off  in  a  tabooed  street,  has  kept  all  my 
energies  brisk  and  busy  for  a  month  past,  and  still  there 
are  more  worlds  to  conquer.  Visions  of  certain  brackets 
and  lambrequins  that  are  to  adorn  my  spare  chamber 
visit  my  pillow  nightly, while  Harry  is  placidly  sleeping 
the  sleep  of  the  just.  I  have  been  unable  to  attain  to 
them  because  I  have  been  so  busy  with  my  parlor  ivies 
and  my  Ward's  case  of  ferns,  and  some  perfectly  seraphic 
hanging  baskets,  gorgeous  with  flowering  nasturtiums 
that  are  now  blooming  in  my  windows.  There  is  a 
dear  little  Quaker  dove  of  a  woman  living  in  the  next 
house  to  ours  who  is  a  perfect  witeh  at  gardening — a 
good  kind  of  witch,  you  understand,  one  who  could 
make  a  broomstick  bud  and  blossom  if  she  undertook  it 
— and 'she  has  been  my  teacher  and  exemplar  in  these 
matters.  Her  parlor  is  a  perfect  bower,  a  drab  dove's 
nest  wreathed  round  with  vines  and  all  a-bloom  with  ger- 


24  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

aniums;  and  mine  is  coming  on  to  look  just  like  it.  So 
you  see  all  this  has  kept  me  ever  so  busy. 

Then  there  are  the  family  accounts  to  keep.  You 
may  think  that  isn't  much  for  our  little  concern,  but  you 
would  be  amazed  to  find  how  much  there  is  in  it.  You 
see,  I  have  all  my  life  concerned  myself  only  with  figures 
of  speech  and  never  gave  a  thought  about  figures  of 
arithmetic  or  troubled  my  head  as  to  where  money  came 
from,  or  went  to ;  and  when  I  married  Harry  I  had  a  gen 
eral  idea  that  we  were  going  to  live  with  delightful  econ 
omy.  But  it  is  astonishing  how  much  all  our  simplicity 
costs,  after  all.  My  account-book  is  giving  me  a  world 
of  new  ideas,  and  some  pretty  serious  ones  too. 

Harry,  you  see,  leaves  every  thing  to  me.  He  has 
to  be  off  to  his  office  by  seven  o'clock  every  morning,  and 
I  am  head  marshal  of  the  commisariat  department — com 
mittee  of  one  on  supplies,  and  all  that — and  it  takes  up  a 
good  deal  of  my  time. 

You  would  laugh,  Belle,  to  see  me  with  my  matronly 
airs  and  graces  going  my  daily  walk  to  the  provision- 
store  at  the  corner,  which  is  kept  by  a  tall,  black-browed 
lugubrious  man,  with  rough  hair  and  a  stiff  stubby  beard, 
who  surveys  me  with  a  severe  gravity  over  the  counter, 
as  if  he  wasn't  sure  that  my  designs  were  quite  honest. 

"  Mr.  Quackenboss,"  I  say,  with  my  sweetest  smile, 
"have  you  any  nice  butter?" 

He  looks  out  of  the  window,  drums  on  the  counter, 
and  answers  "  Yes,"  in  a  tone  of  great  reserve. 

"  I  should  like  to  look  at  some,"  I  say,  undiscouraged. 

"It's  down  cellar,"  he  replies,  gloomily  chewing  a  bit 
of  chip  and  casting  sinister  glances  at  me. 

"  Well,"  I  say,  cheerfully,  "  shall  I  go  down  there  and 
look  at  it  ?" 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  he  asks,  suspiciously. 

"That  depends  on  how  well  I  like  it,"  say  I. 


HO  W  WE  BEGIN  LIFE,  25 

w  I  s'pose  I  could  get  up  a  cask,"  he  says  in  a  rumin 
ating  tone;  and  now  he  calls  his  partner,  a  cheerful,  fat, 
roly-poly  little  cockney  Englishman,  who  flings  his  h's 
round  in  the  most  generous  and  reckless  style.  His  alert 
manner  seems  to  say  that  he  would  get  up  forty  casks  a 
minute  and  throw  them  all  at  my  feet,  if  it  would  give  me 
any  pleasure. 

So  the  butter-cask  is  got  up  and  opened,  and  my 
severe  friend  stands  looking  down  on  it  and  me  as  if  he 
would  say,  "This  also  is  vanity," 

"I  should  like  to  taste  it/'  I  say,  "if  I  had  something 
to  try  it  with," 

He  scoops  up  a  portion  on  his  dirty  thumbnail  and 
seems  to  hold  it  reflectively,  as  if  a  doubt  was  arising  in 
his  mind  of  the  propriety  of  this  mode  of  offering  it  to 
me. 

And  now  rny  cockney  friend  interposes  with  a  clean 
knife.  I  taste  the  butter  and  find  it  excellent,  and  give  a 
generous  order  which  delights  his  honest  soul;  and  as  he 
weighs  it  out  he  throws  in,  gratis,  the  information  that  his 
little  woman  has  tried  it,  and  he  was  sure  I  would  like  if, 
for  she  is  the  tidiest  little  woman  and  the  best  judge  of 
butter;  that  they  came  from  Yorkshire,  where  the  pastures 
round  were  so  sweet  with  a-many  violets  and  cowslips — 
in  fact,  my  little  cockney  friend  strays  off  into  a  kind  of 
pastoral  that  makes  the  little  grocery  store  quite  poetic, 

I  call  my  two  grocers  familiarly  Tragedy  and  Comedy, 
and  make  Harry  a  good  deal  of  fun  by  recounting  my 
adventures  with  them.  I  have  many  speculations  about 
Tragedy.  He  is  a  married  man,  as  I  learn,  and  I  can't 
help  wondering  what  Mrs.  Quackenboss  thinks  of  him. 
Does  he  ever  shave — or  does  she  kiss  him  in  the 
rough — or  has  she  given  up  kissing  him  at  all?  How 
did  he  act  when  he  was  in  love  ? — if  ever  he  was  in  love 
— and  what  did  he  say  to  the  lady  to  induce  her  to  marry 
B 


26  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS, 

him?  How  did  he  look  when  he  did  it?  It  really  makes 
me  shudder  to  think  of  such  a  mournful  ghoul  coming 
back  to  the  domestic  circle  at  night.  I  should  think  the 
little  "  Quacks  "  would  all  run  and  hide.  But  a  truce  to 
scandalizing  my  neighbor — he  may  be  better  than  I  am, 
after  all ! 

I  ought  to  tell  you  that  some  of  my  essays  in  provis 
ioning  my  garrison  might  justly  excite  his  contempt — they 
have  been  rather  appalling  to  my  good  Mary  McArthur. 
You  know  I  had  been  used  to  seeing  about  a  ten-pound 
sirloin  of  beef  on  Papa's  table,  and  the  first  day  I  went 
into  the  shop  I  assumed  an  air  of  easy  wisdom  as  if  I  had 
been  a  housekeeper  all  my  life,  and  ordered  just  such  a 
cut  as  I  had  seen  Mamma  get,  with  all  sorts  of  vegetables 
to  match,  and  walked  home  with  composed  dignity. 
When  Mary  saw  it  she  threw  up  her  hands  and  gave 
an  exclamation  of  horror — "Miss  Eva!"  she  said,  "when 
will  we  get  all  this  eaten  up?"  And  verily  that  beef 
pursued  us  through  the  week  most  like  a  ghost.  We  had 
it  hot,  and  we  had  it  cold;  we  had  it  stewed  and  hashed, 
and  made  soup  of  it;  we  sliced  it  and  we  minced  it,  and 
I  ate  a  great  deal  more  than  was  good  for  me  on  purpose 
to  "  save  it."  Towards  the  close  of  the  week  Harry  civil 
ly  suggested  (he  never  finds  fault  with  anything  I  do,  but 
he  merely  suggested}  whether  it  wouldn't  be  better  to 
have  a  little  variety  in  our  table  arrangements ;  and  then 
I  came  out  with  the  whole  story,  and  we  had  a  good 
laugh  together  about  it.  Since  then  I  have  come  down 
to  taking  lessons  of  Mary,  and  I  say  to  her,  "  How  much 
of  this,  and  that,  had  I  better  get?"  and  between  us  we 
make  it  go  quite  nicely. 

Speaking  of  neighbors,  my  dear  blessed  Aunt  Maria, 
whom  I  suppose  you  remember,  has  almost  broken 
her  heart  about  Papa's  failing  and  my  marrying  Harry 
and,  finally*  our  coming  to  live  on  an  unfashionable  street 


HO  W  WE  BEGIN  LIFE.  27 

— which  in  her  view  is  equal  to  falling  out  of  heaven 
into  some  very  suspicious  region  of  limbo.  She  almost 
quarreled  with  us  both  because,  having  got  married  con 
trary  to  her  will,  we  would  also  insist  on  going  to  house 
keeping  and  having  a  whole  house  to  ourselves  on  a  back 
street  instead  of  having  one  little,  stuffy  room  on  the 
back  side  of  a  fashionable  boarding  house.  Well,  I  made 
all  up  with  her  at  last.  If  you  will  have  your  own  way, 
and  persist  in  it,  people  have  to  make  up  with  you.  You 
thus  get  to  be  like  the  sun  and  moon  which,  though  they 
often  behave  very  inconveniently,  you  have  to  make  the 
best  of;  and  so  Aunt  Maria  has  concluded  to  make  the 
best  of  Harry  and  me.  It  came  about  in  this  wise :  I 
went  and  sat  with  her  the  last  time  she  had  a  sick  head 
ache,  and  kissed  her,  and  bathed  her  head,  and  told  her  I 
wanted  to  be  a  good  girl  and  did  really  love  her,  though 
I  couldn't  always  take  her  advice  now  I  was  a  married 
woman ;  and  so  we  made  it  up. 

But  the  trouble  is  that  now  she  wants  to  show  me 
how  to  run  this  poor  little  unfashionable  boat  so  as  to 
make  a  good  show  with  the  rest  of  them,  and  I  don't 
want  to  learn.  It's  easier  to  keep  out  of  the  regatta. 
My  card-receiver  is  full  of  mcst  desirable  names  of  peo 
ple  who  have  come  in  their  fashionable  carriages  and 
coupes,  and  they  have  "  cji'd  "  and  "  ah'd  "  in  my  little 
parlors,  and  declared  they  were  "  quite  sweet,"  and  "  so 
odd,"  and  "so  different,  you  know;"  but,  for  all  that,  I 
don't  think  I  shall  try  to  keep  up  all  this  gay  circle  of 
acquaintances.  Carriage-hire  costs  money;  and  when 
paid  for  by  the  fc6ur,  one  asks  whether  the  acquaintances 
are  worth  it.  '  But  there  are  some  real  noble-hearted 
people  lhat-1  mean  to  keep.  The  Van  Astrachans,  for 
instance."  Mrs.  Van  Astrachan  is  a  solid  lump  of  good 
ness  ar<5  motherliness,  and  that  sweet  Mrs.  Harry  Endi- 
cott  '&  most  lovable.  You  remember  Harry  Endicott,  I 


28  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

suppose,  and  what  a  trump  card  he  was  thought  to  be 
among  the  girls,  one  time  when  you  were  visiting  us,  and 
afterwards  all  that  scandal  about  him  and  that  pretty 
little  Mrs.  John  Seymour?  She  is  dead  now,  I  hear,  and 
he  has  married  this  pretty  Rose  Ferguson,  a  friend  of 
hers ;  and  since  his  wife  has  taken  him  in  hand,  he  has 
turned  out  to  be  a  noble  fellow.  They  live  up  on  Mad 
ison  avenue  quite  handsomely.  They  are  among  the  "  real 
folk's  "  Mrs.  Whitney  tells  about,  and  I  think  I  must  keep 
them.  The  Elmores  I  don't  care  much  for.  They  are  a 
frivolous,  fast  set,  and  what's  the  use  ?  Sophie  and  her 
husband,  my  old  friend  Wat  Sydney,  I  keep  mainly  be 
cause  she  won't  give  me  up.  She  is  one  of  the  clinging 
sort,  and  is  devoted  to  me.  They  have  a  perfect  palace 
up  by  the  park — it  is  quite  a  show-house,  and  is,  I  under 
stand,  to  be  furnished  by  Harter.  So,  you  see,  it's  like 
a  friendship  between  princess  and  peasant. 

Now,  I  foresee  future  conflicts  with  Aunt  Maria  in  all 
these  possibilities.  She  is  a  nice  woman,  and  bent  on 
securing  what  she  thinks  my  interest,  but  I  can't  help 
seeing  that  she  is  somewhat 

"  A  shade  that  follows  wealth  and  fame." 

The  success  of  my  can^-receiver  delights  her,  and 
not  to  improve  such  opportunities  would  be,  in  her  view, 
to  bury  one's  talent  in  a  napkirr,  Yet,  after  all,  I  differ. 
I  can't  help  seeing  that  intimacies  between  people  with  a 
hundred  thousand  a  year  and  people  of  our  modest 
means  will  be  full  of  perplexities. 

And  then  I  say,  Why  not  try  to  find  all  the  neighbor- 
liness  I  can  on  my  own  street  ?  In  a  couMry  village, one 
finds  a  deal  in  one's  neighbors,  simply  because  one  must. 
They  are  there ;  they  are  all  one  has,  and  human  nature 
is  always  interesting, if  one  takes  it  right  side  oui  Next 
door  is  the  gentle  Quakeress  I  told  you  of.  £&e  is 


HO  W  WE  BEGIN  LIFE.  29 

nobody  in  the  gay  world,  but  as  full  of  sweetness  and 
loving  kindness  as  heart  could  desire.  Then  right  across 
the  way  are  two  antiquated  old  ladies,  very  old,  very 
precise,  and  very  funny,  who  have  come  in  state  and 
called  on  me ;  bringing  with  them  the  most  lovely,  tyran 
nical  little  terrier,  who  behaved  like  a  small-sized  fiend 
and  shocked  them  dreadfully.  I  spy  worlds  of  interest 
in  their  company  if  once  I  can  rub  the  stiffness  out  of 
our  acquaintance,  and  then  I  hope  to  get  the  run  of  the 
delightfully  queer  old  house. 

Then  there  are  our  set — Jim  Fellows,  and  *Bolton, 
and  my  sister  Alice,  and  the  girls — in  and  out  all  the  time. 
We  sha'n't  want  for  society.  So  if  Aunt  Maria  puts  me 
up  for  a  career  in  the  gay  world  I  shall  hang  heavy  on 
her  hands. 

I  haven't  much  independence  myself,  but  it  is  no 
longer  /,  it  is  We.  Eva  Van  Arsdel  alone  was  anybody's 
property;  Mamma  talked  her  one  way,  her  sister  Ida 
another  way,  and  Aunt  Maria  a  third ;  and  among  them 
all  her  own  little  way  was  hard  to  find.  But  now  Harry 
and  I  have  formed  a  firm  and  compact  We,  which  is  a 
fortress  into  which  we  retreat  from  all  the  world.  I  tell 
them  all,  We  don't  think  so,  and  We  don't  do  so.  Isn't 
that  nice  ?  When  will  you  come  and  see  us  ? 

Ever  your  loving  EVA. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    FAMILY    DICTATOR    AT    WORK. 

FROM  the  foregoing  letter  our  readers  may  have  con 
jectured  that  the  natural  self-appointed  ruler  of  the 
fortunes  of  the  Van  Arsdel  family  was  "Aunt  Maria,"  or 
Mrs.  Mftria  Wouvermans. 

That  is  to  say,  this  lady  had  always  considered  such 
to  be  her  mission,  and  had  acted  upon  this  supposition 
up  to  the  time  that  Mr.  Van  Arsdel's  failure  made  ship 
wreck  of  the  fortunes  of  the  family. 

Aunt  Maria  had,  so  to  speak,  reveled  in  the  fortune 
and  position  of  the  Van  Arsdels.  She  had  dictated  the 
expenditures  of  their  princely  income  ;  she  had  projected 
parties  and  entertainments;  she  had  supervised  lists  of 
guests  to  be  invited ;  she  had  ordered  dresses  and  car 
riages  and  equipages,  and  hired  and  dismissed  servants  at 
her  sovereign  will  and  pleasure.  Nominally,  to  be  sure, 
Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  attended  to  all  these  matters ;  but  really 
Aunt  Maria  was  the  power  behind  the  throne.  Mrs.  Van 
Arsdel  was  a  pretty,  graceful,  self-indulgent  woman,  who 
loved  eass  and  hated  trouble — a  natural  climbing  plant 
who  took  kindly  to  any  bean-pole  in  her  neighborhood, 
and  Aunt  Maria  was  her  bean-pole.  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel's 
wealth,  her  station,  her  eclat,  her  blooming  daughters,  all 
climbed  up,  so  to  speak,  on  Aunt  Maria,  and  hung  their 
flowery  clusters  around  her,  to  her  praise  and  glory.  Be 
sides  all  this,  there  were  very  solid  and  appreciable 
advantages  in  the  wealth  and  station  of  the  Van  Arsdel 
family  as  related  to  the  worldly  enjoyment  of  Mrs.  Maria 
Wouvermans.  Being  a  widow,  connected  with  an  old 


THE  FA  MIL  Y  DICTA  TOR  A  T  WORK.  31 

rich  family,  and  with  but  a  small  fortune  of  her  own 
and  many  necessities  of  society  upon  her,  Mrs.  Wouv- 
ermans  had  found  her  own  means  in  several  ways 
supplemented  and  carried  out  by  the  redundant  means  of 
her  sister.  Mrs.  Wouvermans  lived  in  a  moderate  house 
on  Murray  Hill,  within  comfortable  proximity  to  the 
more  showy  palaces  of  the  New  York  nobility.  She  had 
old  furniture,  old  silver,  camel's  hair  shawls  and  jewelry 
sufficient  to  content  her  heart,  but  her  yearly  income  was 
far  below  her  soul's  desires,  and  necessitated  more  econ 
omy  than  she  liked.  While  the  Van  Arsdels  were  in  full 
tide  of  success  she  felt  less  the  confinement  of  these 
limits.  What  need  for  her  to  keep  a  carriage  when  a 
carriage  and  horses  were  always  at  her  command  for  the 
asking — and  even  without  asking,  as  not  infrequently 
came  to  be  the  case  ?  Then,  the  Van  Arsdel  parties  and 
hospitalities  relieved  her  from  all  expensive  obligations  of 
society.  She  returned  the  civilities  of  her  friends  by  invi 
tations  to  her  sister's  parties  and  receptions ;  and  it  is  an 
exceedingly  convenient  thing  to  have  all  the  glory  of 
hospitality  and  none  of  the  trouble — to  have  convenient 
friends  to  entertain  for  you  any  person  or  persons  with 
whom  you  may  be  desirous  of  keeping  up  amicable  re 
lations.  On  the  whole,  Mrs  Wouvermans  was  probably 
sincere  in  the  professions,  to  which  Mr.  Van  Arsdel  used 
to  listen  with  a  quiet  amused  smile,  that  "  she  really  en 
joyed  Nelly's  fortune  more  than  if  it  were  her  own." 

"  Haven't  a  doubt  of  it,"  he  used  to  say,  with  a  twinkle 
of  his  eye  which  he  never  further  explained. 

Mr.  Van  Arsdel's  failure  had  nearly  broken  Aunt 
Maria's  heart.  In  fact,  the  dear  lady  took  the  matter 
more  sorely  than  the  good  man  himself. 

Mr.  Van  Arsdel  was,  in  a  small  dry  way,  something  of 
a  philosopher.  He  was  a  silent  man  for  the  most  part, 
but  had  his  own  shrewd  comments  on  the  essential  worth 


32  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

of  men  and  things — particularly  of  men  in  the  feminine 
gender.  He  had  never  checked  his  pretty  wife  in  any  of 
her  aspirations,  which  he  secretly  valued  at  about  their 
real  value ;  he  had  never  quarreled  with  Aunt  Maria  or 
interfered  with  her  sway  in  his  family  within  certain  lim 
its,  because  he  had  sense  enough  to  see  that  she  was  the 
stronger  of  the  two  women,  and  that  his  wife  could  no 
more  help  yielding  to  her  influence  than  a  needle  can 
help  sticking  to  a  magnet. 

But  the'  race  of  fashionable  life,  its  outlays  of  health 
and  strength,  its  expenditures  for  parties,  and  for  dress 
and  equipage,  its  rivalries,  its  gossip,  its  eager  frivolities, 
were  all  matters  of  which  he  took  quiet  note,  and  which 
caused  him  often  to  ponder  the  words  of  the  wise  man 
of  old,  "What  profit  hath  a  man  of  all  his  labor  and  the 
vexation  of  his  heart,  wherein  he  hath  labored  under  the 
sun?" 

To  Mr.  Van  Arsdel's  eye  the  only  profit  of  his  labor 
and  travail  seemed  to  be  the  making  of  his  wife  frivolous, 
filling  her  with  useless  worries,  training  his  daughters  to 
be  idle  and  self-indulgent,  and  his  sons  to  be  careless  and 
reckless  of  expenditure.  So  when  at  last  the  crash  came, 
there  was  a  certain  sense  of  relief  in  finding  himself  once 
more  an  honest  man  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and  he 
quietly  resolved  in  his  inmost  soul  that  he  never  would 
climb  again.  He .  had  settled  up  his  affairs  with  a  manly 
exactness  that  won  the  respect  of  all  his  creditors,  and 
they  had  put  him  into  a  salaried  position  which  insured 
a  competence,  and  with  this  he  resolved  to  be  contented ; 
his  wife  returned  to  the  economical  habits  and  virtues 
of  her  early  life ;  his  sons  developed  an  amount  of 
manliness  and  energy  which  was  more  than  enough  to 
compensate  for  what  they  had  lost  in  worldly  prospects. 
He  enjoyed  his  small,  quiet  house  and  his  reduced  estab 
lishment  as  he  never  had  done  a  more  brilliant  one,  for 


V  •      •  V  I 

THE  FAMIL  Y  DICTA  TOR  A  T  WORK.  33 

he  felt  that  it  was  founded  upon  certainties  and  involved 
no  risks.  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  was  a  sweet-tempered,  kindly 
woman,  and  his  daughters  had  each  and  every  one  met 
the  reverse  in  a  way  that  showed  the  sterling  quality 
which  is  often  latent  under  gay  and  apparently  thought 
less  young  womanhood. 

Aunt  Maria,  however,  settled  it  in  her  own  mind,  with 
the  decision  with  which  she  usually  settled  her  relatives' 
affairs,  that  this  state  of  things  would  be  only  temporary. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  to  her  numerous  acquaintances, 
"  of  course,  Mr.  Van  Arsdel  will  go  into  business  again — 
he  is  only  waiting  for  a  good  opening — he  '11  be  up  again 
in  a  few  years  where  he  was  before." 

And  to  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  she  said,  "  Nelly,  you  must 
keep  him  up — you  mustn't  hear  of  his  sinking  down  and 
doing  nothing  " — doing  nothing  being  his  living  content 
edly  on  a  comfortable  salary  and  going  without  the 
"  pomps  and  vanities."  "  Your  husband,  of  course,  will 
go  into  some  operations  to  retrieve  his  fortunes,  you 
know,"  she  said.  "What  is  he  thinking  of?" 

"Well,  really,  Maria,  I  don't  see  as  he  has  the  least 
intention — he  seems  perfectly  satisfied  to  live  as  we  do." 

"You  must  put  him  up  to  it,  Nelly — depend  upon  it, 
he  's  in  danger  of  sinking  down  and  giving  up ;  and  he 
has  splendid  business  talents.  He  should  go  to  operating 
in  stocks,  you  see.  Why,  men  make  fortunes  in  that  way. 
Look  at  the  Bubbleums,  and  the  Flashes,  they  were  all 
down  two  years  ago,  and  now  they're  up  higher  than  ever, 
and  they  did  it  all  in  stocks.  Your  husband  would  find 
plenty  of  men  ready  to  go  in  with  him  and  advance 
money  to  begin  on.  No  man  is  more  trusted.  Why, 
Nelly,  that  man  might  die  a  millionaire  as  well  as  not, 
and  you  ought  to  put  him  up  to  it;  it's  a  wife's  business 
to  keep  her  husband  up." 

"  I  have  tried  to,  Maria ;  I  have  been  just  as  cheerful 


34  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

as  I  knew  how  to  be,  and  I've  retrenched  and  economized 
everywhere,  as  all  the  girls  do — they  are  wonderful,  those 
girls!  To  see  them  take  hold  so  cheerfully  and  help 
about  household  matters,  you  never  would  dream  that 
they  had  not  been  brought  up  to  it ;  and  they  are  so  pru 
dent  about -their  clothes — so  careful  and  saving.  And 
then  the  boys  are  getting  on  so  well.  Tom  has  gone  into 
surveying  with  a  will,  and  is  going  out  with  Smithson's 
party  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  Hal  has  just  got  a 
good  situation  in  Boston " 

"  Oh,  yes,  that  is  all  very  well ;  but,  Nelly,  that  isn't 
what  I  mean.  You  know  that  when  men  fail  in  business 
they  are  apt  to  get  blue  and  discouraged  and  give  up 
enterprise,  and  so  gradually  sink  down  and  lose  their 
faculties.  That's  the  way  old  Mr.  Snodgrass  did  when 
he  failed." 

"But  I  don't  think,  Maria,  that  there  is  the  least 
danger  of  my  husband's  losing  his  mind — or  sinking 
down,  as  you  call  it.  I  never  saw  him  more  cheerful  and 
seem  to  take  more  comfort  of  his  life.  Mr.  Van  Arsdel 
never  did  care  for  style — except  as  he  thought  it  pleased 
me — and  I  believe  he  really  likes  the  way  we  live  now 
better  than  the  way  we  did  before ;  he  says  he  has  less 
care." 

"  And  you  are  willing  to  sink  down  and  be  a  nobody, 
and  have  no  carriage,  and  rub  round  in  omnibuses,  and 
have  to  go  to  little  mean  private  country  board  instead 
of  going  to  Newport,  when  you  might  just  as  well  get 
back  the  position  that  you  had.  Why,  it's  downright 
stupidity,  Nelly  !" 

"As  to  mean  country  board,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Van 
Arsdel,  "  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Maria.  We  kept 
our  old  homestead  up  there  in  Vermont,  and  it's  a  very 
respectable  place  to  spend  our  summer  in." 

"Yes,  and  what  chances  have  the  girls  up  there— 


THE  FA  MIL  Y  DICTA  TOR  A  T  WORK.  35 

where  nobody  sees  them  but  oxen?  The  girls  ought  to 
be  considered.  For  their  sakes  you  ought  to  put  your 
husband  up  to  do  something.  It's  cruel  to  them,  brought 
up  with  the  expectations  they  have  had,  to  have  to  give 
all  up  just  as  they  are  coming  out.  If  there  is  any  time 
that  a  mother  must  feel  the  want  of  money  it  is  when  she 
has  daughters  just  beginning  to  go  into  society;  and  it  is 
cruel  towards  young  girls  not  to  give  them  the  means  of 
dressing  and  doing  a  little  as  others  do ;  and  dress  does 
cost  so  abominably,  now-a-days;  it's  perfectly  frightful — 
people  cannot  live  creditably  on  what  they  used  to." 

"  Yes,  certainly,  it  is  frightful  to  think  of  the  require 
ments  of  society  in  these  matters,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel. 
"  Now,  when  you  and  I  were  girls,  Maria,  you  know  we 
managed  to  appear  well  on  a  very  little.  We  embroid 
ered  our  own  capes  and  collars,  and  wore  white  a  good 
deal,  and  cleaned  our  own  gloves,  and  cut  and  fitted  our 
own  dresses;  but,  then  dress  was  not  what  it  is  now. 
Why,  making  a  dress  now  is  like  rigging  a  man-of-war — 
it's  so  complicated — there  are  so  many  parts,  and  so 
much  trimming." 

"Oh,  it's  perfectly  fearful,"  said  Aunt  Maria;  "but, 
then,  what  is  one  to  do?  If  one  goes  into  society  with 
people  who  have  so  much  of  all  these  things,  why  one 
must,  at  least,  make  some  little  approach  to  decent 
appearance.  We  must  keep  within  sight  of  them.  All  I 
ask,"  she  added,  meekly,  "is  to  be  decent.  I  never  ex 
pect  to  run  into  the  extremes  those  Elmores  do — the 
waste  and  the  extravagance  that  there  must  be  in  that 
family !  And  there's  Mrs.  Wat  Sydney  coming  out  with 
the  whole  new  set  of  her  Paris  dresses.  I  should  like  to 
know,  for  curiosity's  sake,  just  what  that  woman  has 
spent  on  her  dresses!" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  warming  with  the  sub 
ject,  "  you  know  she  had  all  her  wardrobe  from  Worth, 


36  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

and  Worth's  dresses  come  to  something.  Why,  Polly 
told  me  that  the  lace  alone  on  some  of  those  dresses 
would  be  a  fortune." 

"  And  just  to  think  that  Eva  might  have  married  Wat 
Sydney,"  said  Aunt  Maria.  "  It  does  seem  as  if  things 
in  this  world  fell  out  on  purpose  to  try  us!" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  they  do,  and  we  ought  to  try  and 
improve  by  them,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  who  had  some 
weak,  gentle  ideas  of  a  moral  purpose  in  existence,  to 
which  even  the  losses  and  trials  of  lace  and  embroidery 
might  be  made  subservient.  "  After  all,"  she  added,  "  I 
don't  know  but  we  ought  to  be  contented  with  Eva's 
position.  Eva  always  was  a  peculiar  child.  Under  all 
her  sweetness  and  softness  she  has  quite  a  will  of  her 
own;  and,  indeed,  Harry  is  a  good  fellow,  and  doing 
well  in  his  line.  He  makes  a  very  good  income,  for  a 
beginning,  and  he  is  rising  every  day  in  the  literary 
world,  and  I  don't  see  but  that  they  have  as  good  an 
opportunity  to  make  their  way  in  society  as  the  Sydneys 
with  all  their  money." 

"Sophie  Sydney  is  perfectly  devoted  to  Eva,"  said 
Aunt  Maria. 

"  And  well  she  may  be,"  answered  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel, 
"  in  fact,  Eva  made  that  match ;  she  actually  turned  him 
over  to  her.  You  remember  how  she  gave  her  that  prize 
croquet-pin  that  Sydney  gave  her,  and  how  she  talked  to 
Sydney,  and  set  him  to  thinking  of  Sophie — oh,  pshaw ! 
Sydney  never  would  have  married  that  girl  in  the  world 
if  it  had  not  been  for  Eva." 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  "it's  as  well  to  cultivate 
that  intimacy.  It  will  be  a  grand  summer  visiting  place 
at  their  house  in  Newport,  and  we  want  visiting  places 
for  the  girls.  I  have  put  two  or  three  anchors  out  to  the 
windward,  in  that  respect.  I  am  going  to  have  the 
Stephenson  girls  at  my  house  this  winter,  and  your  girls 


THE  FAMIL  Y  DICTA  TOR  A  T  WORK.  37 

must  help  show  them  New  York,  and  cultivate  them,  and 
then  there  will  be  a  nice  visiting  place  for  them  at  Judge 
Stephenson's  next  summer.  You  see  the  Judge  lives 
within  an  easy  drive  of  Newport,  so  that  they  can  get 
over  there,  and  see  and  be  seen." 

"  I'm  sure,  Maria,  it's  good  in  you  to  be  putting  your 
self  out  for  my  girls." 

"Pshaw,  Nelly,  just  as  if  your  girls  were  not  mine — 
they  are  all  I  have  to  live  for.  I  can't  stop  any  longer 
now,  because  I  must  catch  the  omnibus  to  go  down  to 
Eva's  ;  I  am  going  to  spend  the  day  with  her."  • 

"How  nicely  Eva  gets  along,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel, 
with  a  little  pardonable  motherly  pride ;  "  that  girl  takes 
to  housekeeping  as  if  it  came  natural  to  her." 

"Yes,"  said  Aunt  Maria;  "you  know  I  have  had  Eva 
a  great  deal  under  my  own  eye,  first  and  last,  and  it 
shows  that  early  training  will  tell."  Aunt  Maria  picked 
up  this  crumb  of  self-glorification  with  an  easy  matter-of- 
fact  air  which  was  peculiarly  aggravating  to  her  sister. 

In  her  own  mind  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  thought  it  a  little 
too  bad.  "Maria  always  did  take  the  credit  of  every 
thing  that  turned  out  well  in  my  family,"  she  said  to  her 
self,  "and  blamed  me  for  all  that  went  wrong." 

But  she  was  too  wary  to  murmur  out  loud,  and  bent 
her  head  to  the  yoke  in  silence. 

"  Eva  needs  a  little  showing  and  cautioning,"  said 
Aunt  Maria ;  "  that  Mary  of  hers  ought  to  be  watched, 
and  I  shall  tell  her  so — she  mustn't  leave  everything  to 
Mary." 

"  Oh,  Mary  lived  years  with  me,  and  is  the  most  de 
voted,  faithful  creature,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel. 

"  Never  mind — she  needs  watching.  She's  getting 
old  now,  and  don't  work  as  she  used  to,  and  if  Eva  don't 
look  out  she  won't  get  half  a  woman's  work  out  of  her — 
these  old  servants  always  take  liberties.  I  shall  look  into 


38  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

things  there.  Eva  is  my  girl;  I  sha'n't  let  anyone  get 
around  her;"  and  Aunt  Maria  arose  to  go  forth.  But  if 
anybody  supposes  that  two  women  engaged  in  a  morning 
talk  are  going  to  stop  when  one  of  them  rises  to  go, 
he  knows  very  little  of  the  ways  of  womankind.  When 
they  have  risen,  drawn  up  their  shawls,  and  got  ready  to 
start,  then  is  the  time  to  call  a  new  subject,  and  accordingly 
Aunt  Maria,  as  she  was  going  out  the  door,  turned  round 
and  said  :  "  Oh  !  there  now  !  I  almost  forgot  what  I  came 
for: — What  are  you  going  to  do  about  the  girls'  party 
.dresses?" 

"  Well,  we  shall  get  a  dressmaker  in  the  house.  If  we 
can  get  Silkriggs,  we  shall  try  her." 

"  Now,  Nelly,  look  here,  I  have  found  a  real  treasure 
— the  nicest  little  dressmaker,  just  set  up,  and  who  works 
cheap.  Maria  Meade  told  me  about  her.  She  showed 
me  a  suit  that  she  had  had  made  there  in  imitation  of  a 
Paris  dress,  with  ever  so  much  trimming,  cross-folds 
bound  on  both  edges,  and  twenty  or  thirty  bows,  all  cut 
on  the  bias  and  bound,  and  box-plaiting  with  double  quil 
ling  on  each  side  all  round  the  bottom,  and  going  up  the 
front — graduated,  you  know.  There  was  waist,  and 
overskirt,  and  a  little  sacque,  and,  will  you  believe  me,  she 
only  asked  fifteen  dollars  for  making  it  all." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !" 

"  It's  a  fact.  Why,  it  must  have  been  a  good  week's 
work  to  make  that  dress,  even  with  her  sewing  machine. 
Maria  told  me  of  her  as  a  great  secret,  because  she  really 
works  so  well  that  if  folks  knew  it  she  would  be  swamped 
with  work,  and  then  go  to  raising  her  price — that's  what 
they  all  do  when  they  can  get  a  chance — but  I've  been  to 
her  and  engaged  her  for  you." 

"  I'm  sure,  Maria,  I  don't  know  what  we  should  do  if 
you  were  not  always  looking  out  for  us." 

"  I  don't  know — I'm  getting  to  be  an  old  woman," 


THE  FAMIL  Y  DICTA  TOR  A  T  WORK.  39 

said  Aunt  Maria.  "  I'm  not  what  I  was.  But  I  consider 
your  family  as  my  appointed  field  of  labor — just  as  our 
rector  said  last  Sunday,  we  must  do  the  duty  next  us.  But 
tell  the  girls  not  to  talk  about  this  dressmaker.  We  shall 
want  all  she  can  do,  and  make  pretty  much  our  own 
terms  with  her.  It's  nice  and  convenient  for  Eva  that 
she  lives  somewhere  down  in  those  out-of-the-way  regions 
where  she  has  chosen  to  set  up.  Well,  good  morning;" 
and  Aunt  Maria  opened  the  house-door  and  stood  upon 
the  top  of  the  steps,  when  a  second  postscript  struck  her 
mind. 

"  There  now!"  said  she,  "I  was  meaning  to  tell  you 
that  it  is  getting  to  be  reported  everywhere  that  Alice  and 
Jim  Fellows  are  engaged." 

"  Oh,  well,  of  course  there's  nothing  in  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Van  Arsdel.  "  I  don't  think  Alice  would  think  of  him 
for  a  moment.  She  likes  him  as  a  friend,  that's  all." 

"  I  don't  know,  Nelly;  you  can't  be  too  much  on  your 
guard.  Alice  is  a  splendid  girl,  and  might  have  almost 
anybody.  Between  you  and  me — now,  Nelly,  you  must 
be  sure  not  to  mention  it — but  Mr.  Delafield  has  been 
very  much  struck  with  her." 

"Oh,  Maria,  how  can  you?  Why,  his  wife  hasn't 
been  dead  a  year  !" 

"Oh,  pshaw!  these  widowers  don't  always  govern 
their  eyes  by  the  almanac,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  with  a 
laugh.  "  Of  course,  John  Delafield  will  marry  again.  I 
always  knew  that ;  and  Alice  would  be  a  splendid  woman 
to  be  at  the  head  of  his  establishment.  At  any  rate,  at 
the  little  company  the  other  night  at  his  sister's,  Mrs. 
Singleton's,  you  know,  he  was  perfectly  devoted  to  her, 
and  I  thought  Mrs.  Singleton  seemed  to  like  it." 

"  It  would  certainly  be  a  fine  position,  if  Alice  can 
fancy  him,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel.  "  Seems  to  me  he  is 
rather  querulous  and  dyspeptic,  is  n't  he  ?" 


40  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Ohj  well,  yes ;  his  health  is  delicate ;  he  needs  a 
wife  to  take  care  of  him." 

"He's  so  yellow!"  ruminated  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  in 
genuously.  "I  never  could  bear  thin,  yellow  men." 

"  Oh,  come,  don't  you  begin,  Nelly — it's  bad  enough 
to  have  girls  with  their  fancies.  What  we  ought  to  look 
at  are  the  solid  excellences.  What  a  pity  that  the  mar 
rying  age  always  comes  when  girls  have  the  least  sense  ! 
John  Delafield  is  a  solid  man,  and  if  he  should  take  a 
fancy  to  Alice,  it  would  be  a  great  piece  of  good  luck. 
Alice  ought  to  be  careful,  and  not  have  these  reports 
around,  about  her  and  Jim  Fellows ;  it  just  keeps  off  ad 
vantageous  offers.  I  shall  talk  to  Alice  the  first  time  I 
get  a  chance." 

"Oh,  pray  don't,  Maria — I  don't  think  it  would  do 
any  good.  Alice  is  very  set  in  her  way,  and  it  might  put 
her  up  to  make  something  of  it  more  than  there  is." 

"Oh,  never  fear  me,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  nodding  her 
head;  "I  understand  Alice,  and  know  just  what  needs  to 
be  said.  I  sha'n't  do  her  any  harm,  you  may  be  sure," 
and  Aunt  Maria,  espying  her  omnibus  afar,  ran  briskly 
down  the  steps,  thus  concluding  the  conference. 

Now  it  happened  that  adjoining  the  parlor  where  this 
conversation  had  taken  place  was  a  little  writing-cabinet 
which  Mr.  Van  Arsdel  often  used  for  the  purposes  of 
letter-writing.  On  this  morning,  when  his  wife  supposed 
him  out  as  usual  at  his  office,  he  had  retired  there  to  at 
tend  to  some  correspondence.  The  entrance  was  con 
cealed  by  drapery,  and  so  he  had  been  an  unintentional 
and  unsuspected  but  much  amused  listener  to  Aunt 
Maria's  adjurations  to  his  wife  on  his  behalf. 

All  through  his  subsequent  labors  of  the  pen,  he  might 
have  been  observed  to  pause  from  time  to  time  and  laugh 
to  himself.  The  idea  of  lying  as  a  quiet  dead  weight  on 
the  wheels  of  the  progress  of  his  energetic  relation  was 


THE  FAMIL  Y  DICTA  TOR  A  T  WORK.  41 

something  vastly  pleasing  to  the  dry  and  secretive  turn 
of  his  humor — and  he  rather  liked  it  than  otherwise. 

"  We  shall  see  whether  I  am  losing  my  faculties,"  he 
said  to  himself,  as  he  gathered  up  his  letters  and  de 
parted. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

EVA  HENDERSON  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER. 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER  :  Harry  says  I  must  do  all  the 
writing  to  you  and  keep  you  advised  of  all  our 
affairs,  because  he  is  so  driven  with  his  editing  and  proof 
reading  that  letter-writing  is  often  the  most  fatiguing 
thing  he  can  do.  It  is  like  trying  to  run  after  one  has 
become  quite  out  of  breath. 

The  fact  ig,  dear  mother,  the  demands  of  this  New 
York  newspaper  life  are  terribly  exhausting.  It's  a  sort 
of  red-hot  atmosphere  of  hurry  and  competition.  Maga 
zines  and  newspapers  jostle  each  other,  and  run  races, 
neck  and  neck,  and  everybody  connected  with  them  is 
kept  up  to  the  very  top  of  his  speed,  or  he  is  thrown 
out  of  the  course.  You  see,  Bolton  and  Harry  have 
between  them  the  oversight  of  three  papers — a  monthly 
magazine  for  the  grown  folk,  another  for  the  children, 
and  a  weekly  paper.  Of  course  there  are  sub-editors, 
but  they  have  the  general  responsibility,  and  so  you  see 
they  are  on  the  qui  vive  all  the  time  to  keep  up ;  for 
there  are  other  papers  and  magazines  running  against 
them,  and  the  price  of  success  seems  to  be  eternal 
vigilance.  What  is  exacted  of  an  editor  now-a-days 
seems  to  be  a  sort  of  general  omniscience.  He  must 
keep  the  run  of  everything, — politics,  science,  religion, 
art,  agriculture,  general  literature ;  the  world  is  alive 
and  moving  everywhere,  and  he  must  know  just 
what's  going  on  and  be  able  to  have  an  opinion  ready 
made  and  ready  to  go  to  press  at  any  moment.  He 


EVA  HENDERSON  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.        43 

must  tell  to  a  T  just  what  they  are  doing  in  Ashantee 
and  Dahomey,  and  what  they  don't  do  and  ought  to  do 
in  New  York.  He  must  be  wise  and  instructive  about 
currency  and  taxes  and  tariffs,  and  able  to  guide 
Congress;  and  then  he  must  take  care  of  the  Church, 
—  know  just  what  the  Old  Catholics  are  up  to, 
the  last  new  kink  of  the  Ritualists,  and  the  right  and 
wrong  of  all  the  free  fights  in  the  different  denomina 
tions.  It  really  makes  my  little  head  spin  just  to  hear 
what  they  are  getting  up  articles  about.  Bolton  and 
Harry  are  kept  on  the  chase,  looking  up  men  whose 
specialties  lie  in  these  lines  to  write  for  them.  They 
have  now  in  tow  a  Jewish  Rabbi,  who  is  going  to  do 
something  about  the  Talmud,  or  Targums,  or  something 
of  that  sort;  and  a  returned  missionary  from  the  Gaboon 
River,  who  entertained  Du  Chaillu  and  can  speak  au 
thentically  about  the  gorilla;  and  a  lively  young  doctor 
who  is  devoting  his  life  to  the  study  of  the  brain  and 
nervous  system.  Then  there  are  all  sorts  of  writing  men 
and  women  sending  pecks  and  bushels  of  articles  to  be 
printed,  and  getting  furious  if  they  are  not  printed,  though 
the  greater  part  of  them  are  such  hopeless  trash  that  you 
only  need  to  read  four  lines  to  know  that  they  are  good 
for  nothing;  but  they  all  expect  them  to  be  re-mailed 
with  explanations  and  criticisms,  and  the  ladies  some 
times  write  letters  of  wrath  to  Harry  that  are  perfectly 
fearful. 

Altogether  there  is  a  good  deal  of  an  imbroglio,  and 
you  see  with  it  all  how  he  comes  to  be  glad  that  I  have  a 
turn  for  letter-writing  and  can  keep  you  informed  of  how 
we  of  the  interior  go  on.  My  business  in  it  all  is  to 
keep  a  quiet,  peaceable,  restful  home,  where  he  shall 
always  have  the  enjoyment  of  seeing  beautiful  things  and 
find  everything  going  on  nicely  without  having  to  think 
why,  or  how,  or  wherefore ;  and,  besides  this,  to  do  every 


44  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

little  odd  and  end  for  him  that  he  is  too  tired  or  too 
busy  to  do ;  in  short,  I  suppose  some  of  the  ambitious 
lady  leaders  of  our  time  would  call  it  playing  second 
fiddle.  Yes,  that  is  it ;  but  there  must  be  second  fiddles 
in  an  orchestra,  and  it's  fortunate  that  I  have  precisely] 
the  talent  for  playing  one,  and  my  doctrine  is  that  the 
second  fiddle  well  played  is  quite  as  good  as  the  first. 
What  would  the  first  be  without  it? 

After  all,  in  this  great  fuss  about  the  men's  sphere  and 
the  women's,  isn't  the  women's  ordinary  work  just  as  im 
portant  and  great  in  its  way  ?  For,  you  see,  it's  what  the 
men  with  all  their  greatness  can't  do,  for  the  life  of  them. 
I  can  go  a  good  deal  further  in  Harry's  sphere  than  he 
can  in  mine.  I  can  judge  about  the  merits  of  a  transla 
tion  from  the  French,  or  criticise  an  article  or  story,  a 
great  deal  better  than  he  can  settle  the  difference  between 
the  effect  of  tucking  and  inserting  in  a  dress,  or  of  cherry 
and  solferino  in  curtains.  Harry  appreciates  a  room 
prettily  got  up  as  well  as  any  man,  but  how  to  get  it  up 
— all  the  shades  of  color  and  niceties  of  arrangement,  the 
thousand  little  differences  and  agreements  that  go  to  it — 
he  can't  comprehend.  So  this  man  and  woman  question 
is  just  like  the  quarrel  between  the  mountain  and  the 
squirrel  in  Emerson's  poem,  where  "  Bun  "  talks  to  the 
mountain : 

"  If  I  am  not  so  big  as  you, 

You're  not  so  small  as  I, 

And  not  half  so  spry. 

If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 

Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 

I  am  quite  satisfied  that,  first  and  last,  I  shall  crack  a 
good  many  nuts  for  Harry.  Not  that  I  am  satisfied  with 
a  mere  culinary  or  housekeeping  excellence,  or  even  an 
artistic  and  poetic  skill  in  making  home  lovely ;  I  do  want 
a  sense  of  something  noble  and  sacred  in  life — something 


EVA  HENDERSON  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.        45 

to  satisfy  a  certain  feeling  of  the  heroic- that  always  made 
me  unhappy  and  disgusted  with  my  aimless  fashionable 
girl  career.  I  always  sympathized  with  Ida,  and  admired 
her  because  she  had  force  enough  to  do  something  that 
she  thought  was  going  to  make  the  world  better.  It  is 
better  to  try  and  fail  with  such  a  purpose  as  hers  than 
never  to  try  at  all ;  and  in  that  point  of  view  I  sympa 
thize  with  the  whole  woman  movement,  though  I  see  no 
place  for  myself  in  it.  But  my  religion,  poor  as  it  is,  has 
always  given  this  excitement  to  me :  I  never  could  see 
how  one  could  profess  to-  be  a  Christian  at  all  and  not 
live  a  heroic  life — though  I  know  I  never  have.  When  I 
hear  in  church  of  the  "glorious  company  of  the  apostles," 
the  "  goodly  fellowship  of  the  prophets,"  the  "  noble  army 
of  martyrs,"  I  have  often  such  an  uplift — and  the  tears 
come  to  my  eyes,  and  then  my  life  seems  so  poor  and 
petty,  so  frittered  away  in  trifles.  Then  the  communion 
service  of  our  church  always  impresses  me  as  something 
so  serious,  so  profound,  that  I  have  wondered  how  I  dared 
go  through  with  it ;  and  it  always  made  me  melancholy  and 
dissatisfied  with  myself.  To  offer  one's  soul  and  body 
and  spirit  to  God  a  living  sacrifice  surely  ought  to  mean 
something  that  should  make  one's  life  noble  and  heroic, 
yet  somehow  it  didn't  do  so  with  mine. 

It  was  one  thing  that  drew  me  to  Harry,  that  he 
seemed  to  me  an  earnest,  religious  man,  and  I  told  him 
when  we  were  first  engaged  that  he  must  be  my  guide ; 
but  he  said  no,  we  must  go  hand  in  hand,  and  guide  each 
other,  and  together  we  would  try  to  find  the  better  way. 
Harry  is  very  good  to  me  in  being  willing  to  go  with  me 
to  my  church.  I  told  him  I  was  weak  in  religion  at  any 
rate,  and  all  my  associations  with  good  and  holy  things 
were  with  my  church,  and  I  really  felt  afraid  to  trust  my 
self  without  them.  I  have  tried  going  to  his  sort  of 
services  with  him,  but  these  extemporaneous  prayers 


46  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

don't  often  help  me.  I  find  myself  weighing  and  consid 
ering  in  my  own  mind  whether  that  is  what  I  really  do 
feel  or  ask ;  and  if  one  is  judging  or  deciding  one  can't  be 
praying  at  the  same  time.  Now  and  then  I  hear  a  good 
man  who  so  wraps  me  up  in  his  sympathies,  and  breathes 
such  a  spirit  of  prayer  as  carries  me  without  effort,  and 
that  is  lovely ;  but  it  is  so  rare  a  gift !  In  general  I  long 
for  the  dear  old  prayers  of  my  church,  where  my  poor 
little  naughty  heart  has  learned  the  way  and  can  go  on 
with  full  consent  without  stopping  to  think. 

So  Harry  and  I  have  settled  on  attending  an  Episco 
pal  mission  church  in  our  part  of  the  city.  Its  worshipers 
are  mostly  among  the  poor,  and  Harry  thinks  we  might 
do  good  by  going  there.  Our  rector  is  a  young  Mr.  St. 
John,  a  man  as  devoted  as  any  of  the  primitive  Christians. 
I  never  saw  anybody  go  into  work  for  others  with  more 
entire  self-sacrifice.  He  has  some  property,  and  he  sup 
ports  himself  and  pays  about  half  the  expenses  of  the 
mission  besides.  All  this  excites  Harry's  respect,  and  he 
is  willing  to  do  himself  and  have  me  do  all  we  can  to 
help  him.  Both  Alice  and  I,  and  my  younger  sisters, 
Angelique  and  Marie,  have  taken  classes  in  his  mission 
school,  and  the  girls  help  every  week  in  a  sewing-school, 
and,  so  far  as  practical  work  is  concerned,  everything 
moves  beautifully.  But  then,  Mr.  St.  John  is  very  high 
church  and  very  stringent  in  his  notions,  and  Harry, 
who  is  ultra-liberal,  says  he  is  good,  but  narrow;  and 
so  when  they  are  together  I  am  quite  nervous  about 
them.  I  want  Mr.  St.  John  to  appear  well  to  Harry, 
and  I  want  Harry  to  please  Mr.  St.  John.  Harry  is 
aesthetic  and  likes  the  church  services,  and  is  ready 
to  go  as  Tar  as  anybody  could  ask  in  the  way  of  in 
teresting  and  beautiful  rites  and  ceremonies,  and  he  likes 
antiquities  and  all  that,  and  so  to  a  certain  extent  they 
get  on  nicely;  but  come  to  the  question  of  church 


EVA  HENDERSON  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.        47 

authority,  and  Lloyd  Garrison  and  all  the  radicals  are 
not  more  untamable.  He  gets  quite  wild,  and  frightens 
me  lest  dear  Mr.  St.  John  should  think  him  an  infidel. 
And,  in  fact,  Harry  has  such  a  sort  of  latitudinarian  way 
of  hearing  what  all  sorts  of  people  have  to  say,  and  ad 
mitting  bits  of  truth  here  and  there  in  it,  as  sometimes 
makes  me  rather  uneasy.  He  talks  with  these  Darwin 
ians  and  scientific  men  who  have  an  easy  sort  of  matter- 
of-course  way  of  assuming  that  the  Bible  is  nothing  but 
an  old  curiosity-shop  of  by-gone  literature,  and  is  so 
tolerant  in  hearing  all  they  have  to  say,  that  I  quite  burn 
to  testify  and  stand  up  for  my  faith — if  I  knew  enough  to 
do  it ;  but  I  really  feel  afraid  to  ask  Mr.  St.  John  to  help 
me,  because  he  is  so  set  and  solemn,  and  confines  him 
self  to  announcing  that  thus  and  so  is  the  voice  of  the 
church;  and  you  see  that  don't  help  me  to  keep  up  my 
end  with  people  that  don't  care  for  the  church. 

But,  Mother  dear,  isn't  there  some  end  to  toleration ; 
ought  we  Christians  to  sit  by  and  hear  all  that  is  dearest 
and  most  sacred  to  us  spoken  of  as  a  by-gone  supersti 
tion,  and  smile  assent  on  the  ground  that  everybody  must 
be  free  to  express  his  opinions  in  good  society?  Now, 
for  instance,  there  is  this  young  Dr.  Campbell,  whom 
Harry  is  in  treaty  with  for  articles  on  the  brain  and 
nervous  system — a  nice,  charming,  agreeable  fellow,  and 
a  perfect  enthusiast  in  science,  and  has  got  so  far  that 
love  or  hatred  or  inspiration  or  heroism  or  religion  is 
nothing  in  his  view  but  what  he  calls  ''cerebration  " — he 
is  so  lost  and  absorbed  in  cerebration  and  molecules,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  that  you  feel  all  the  time  he  is  ob 
serving  you  to  get  facts  about  some  of  his  theories  as  they 
do  the  poor  mice  and  butterflies  they  experiment  with. 

The  other  day  he  was  talking,  in  his  taking-for- 
granted,  rapid  way,  about  the  absurdity  of  believing  in 
prayer,  when  I  stopped  him  squarely,  and  told  him  that 


48  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

he  ought  not  to  talk  in  that  way ;  that  to  destroy  faith  in 
prayer  was  taking  away  about  all  the  comfort  that  poor, 
sorrowful,  oppressed  people  had.  I  said  it  was  just  like 
going  through  a  hospital  and  pulling  all  the  pillows  from 
under  the  sick  people's  heads  because  there  might  be  a 
more  perfect  scientific  invention  by  and  by,  and  that  I 
thought  it  was  cruel  and  hard-hearted  to  do  it.  He 
looked  really  astonished,  and  asked  me  if  I  believed  in 
prayer.  I  told  him  our  Saviour  had  said,  "  Ask,  and  ye 
shall  receive,"  and  I  believed  it.  He  seemed  quite 
astonished  at  my  zeal,  and  said  he  didn't  suppose 
any  really  cultivated  people  now-a-days  believed  those 
things.  I  told  him  I  believed  everything  that  Jesus 
Christ  said,  and  thought  he  knew  more  than  all  the  philos 
ophers,  and  that  he  said  we  had  a  Father  that  loved  us 
and  cared  for  us,  even  to  the  hairs  of  our  heads,  and  that 
I  shouldn't  have  courage  to  live  if  I  didn't  believe  that. 
Harry  says  I  did  right  to  speak  up  as  I  did.  Dr.  Camp 
bell  don't  seem  to  be  offended  with  me,  for  he  comes 
here  more  than  ever.  He  is  an  interesting  fellow,  full  of 
life  and  enthusiasm  in  his  profession,  and  I  like  to  hear 
him  talk. 

But  here  I  am,  right  in  the  debatable  land  between 
faith  and  no  faith.  On  the  part  of  a  great  many  of  the 
intelligent,  good  men  whom  Harry,  for  one  reason  or 
other,  invites  to  our  house,  and  wants  me  to  be  agreeable 
to,  are  all  shades  of  opinion,  of  half  faith,  and  no  faith, 
and  I  don't  wish  to  hush  free  conversation,  or  to  be  treated 
like  a  baby  who  will  cry  if  they  make  too  much  noise ;  and 
then  on  the  other  hand  is  Mr.  St.  John — whom  I  regard 
with  reverence  on  account  of  his  holy,  self-denying  life — 
who  stands  so  definitely  entrenched  within  the  limits  of  the 
church,  and  does  not  in  his  own  mind  ever  admit  a  doubt 
of  anything  which  the  church  has  settled;  and  between  them 
and  Harry  and  all  I  don't  know  just  what  I  ought  to  do. 


EVA  HENDERSON  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER,       49 

I  am  sure,  if  there  is  a  man  in  the  world  who  means 
in  all  things  to  live  the  Christian  life,  it's  Harry.  There 
is  no  difference  between  him  and  Mr.  St.  John  there. 
He  is  ready  for  any  amount  of  self-sacrifice,  and  goes 
with  Mr.  St.  John  to  the  extent  of  his  ability  in  his 
efforts  to  do  good ;  and  yet  he  really  does  not  believe  a 
great  many  things  that  Mr.  St.  John  thinks  are  Christian 
doctrines.  He  says  he  believes  only  in  the  wheat,  and 
not  in  the  chaff,  and  that  it  is  only  the  chaff  that  will  be 
blown  away  in  these  modern  discussions.  With  all  this, 
I  feel  nervous  and  anxious,  and  sometimes  wish  I  could 
go  right  into  some  good,  safe,  dark  church,  and  pull 
down  all  the  blinds,  and  shut  all  the  doors,  and  keep  out 
all  the  bustle  of  modern  thinking,  and  pray,  and  medi 
tate,  and  have  a  lovely,  quiet  time. 

Mr.  St.  John  lends  me  from  time  to  time  some  of  his 
ritualistic  books ;  and  they  are  so  refined  and  scholarly, 
and  yet  so  devout,  that  Harry  and  I  are  quite  charmed 
with  their  tone ;  but  I  can't  help  seeing  that,  as  Harry 
says,  they  lead  right  back  into  the  Romish  church — and 
by  a  way  that  seems  enticingly  beautiful.  Sometimes  I 
think  it  would  be  quite  delightful  to  have  a  spiritual 
director  who  would  save  you  all  the  trouble  of  deciding, 
and  take  your  case  in  hand,  and  tell  you  exactly  what  to 
do  at  every  step.  Mr.  St.  John,  I  know,  would  be  just 
the  person  to  assume  such  a  position.  He  is  a  natural 
school-master,  and  likes  to  control  people,  and,  although 
he  is  so  very  gentle,  I  always  feel  that  he  is  very  strin 
gent,  and  that  if  I  once  allowed  him  ascendancy  he 
would  make  no  allowances.  I  can  feel  the  "  main  de  fer  " 
through  the  perfect  gentlemanly  polish  of  his  exterior; 
but  you  see  I  know  Harry  never  would  go  completely 
under  his  influence,  and  I  shrink  from  anything  that 
would  divide  me  from  my  husband,  and  so  I  don't  make 
any  move  in  that  direction. 


50  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

You  see,  I  write  to  you  all  about  these  matters,  for  my 
mamma  is  a  sweet,  good  little  woman  who  never  troubles 
her  head  with  anything  in  this  line,  and  my  god-mother, 
Aunt  Maria,  is  a  dear  worldly  old  soul,  whose  heart  is 
grieved  within  her  because  I  care  so  little  for  the  pomps 
and  vanities.  She  takes  it  to  heart  that  Harry  and  I 
have  definitely  resolved  to  give  up  party-going,  and  all 
that  useless  round  of  calling  and  dressing  and  visiting 
that  is  called  "  going  into  society,"  and  she  sometimes 
complicates  matters  by  trying  her  forces  to  get  me  into 
those  old  grooves  I  was  so  tired  of  running  in.  I  never 
pretend  to  talk  to  her  of  the  deeper  wants  or  reasons  of 
my  life,  for  it  would  be  ludicrously  impossible  to  make 
her  understand.  She  is  a  person  over  whose  mind  never 
came  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  she  was  right  in  her 
views  of  life  ;  and  I  am  not  the  person  to  evangelize  her. 

Well  now,  dear  Mother,  imagine  a  further  complication. 
Harry  is  very  anxious  that  we  should  have  an  evening 
once  a  week  to  receive  our  friends — an  informal,  quiet, 
sociable,  talking  evening,  on  a  sort  of  ideal  plan  of  his, 
in  which  everybody  is  to  be  made  easy  and  at  home,  and 
to  spend  just  such  a  quiet,  social  hour  as  at  one's  own 
chimney-corner.  But  fancy  my  cares,  with  all  the  men 
agerie  of  our  very  miscellaneous  acquaintainces !  I 
should  be  like  the  man  in  the  puzzle  that  had  to  get  the 
fox  and  geese  and  corn  over  in  one  boat  without  their 
eating  each  other.  Fancy  Jim  Fellows  and  Mr.  St.  John ! 
Dr.  Campbell,  with  his  molecules  and  cerebration,  talking 
to  my  little  Quaker  dove,  with  her  white  wings  and  sim 
ple  faith,  or  Aunt  Maria  and  mamma  conversing  with  a 
Jewish  Rabbi !  I  believe  our  family  have  a  vague  im 
pression  that  Jews  are  disreputable,  however  gentlemanly 
and  learned ;  and  I  don't  know  but  Mr.  St.  John  would 
feel  shocked  at  him.  Nevertheless,  our  Rabbi  is  a  very 
excellent  German  gentleman,  and  one  of  the  most  inter- 


EVA  HENDERSON  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.       51 

esting  talkers  I  have  heard.  Oh  !  then  there  are  our 
rococo  antiquities  across  the  street,  Miss  Dorcas  Vander- 
heyden  and  her  sister.  What  shall  I  do  with  them  all  ? 
Harry  has  such  boundless  confidence  in  my  powers  of 
doing  the  agreeable  that  he  seems  to  think  I  can,  out  of 
this  material,  make  a  most  piquant  and  original  combina 
tion.  I  have  an  awful  respect  for  the  art  de  tenir  salon^ 
and  don't  wonder  that  among  pur  artistic  French  neigh 
bors  it  got  to  be  a  perfect  science.  But  am  I  the  woman 
born  to  do  it  in  New  York  ? 

Well,  there's  no  way  to  get  through  the  world  but  to 
keep  doing,  and  to  attack  every  emergency  with  courage. 
I  shall  do  my  possible,  and  let  you  know  of  my  success. 

Your  daughter, 

EVA. 


CHAPTER    V. 

A    TEMPEST    IN    A    TEAPOT. 

THE  housekeeping  establishment  of  Eva  Henderson, 
nde  Van  Arsdel,  was  in  its  way  a  model  of  taste, 
order,  and  comfort.  There  was  that  bright,  attractive, 
cosy  air  about  it  that  spoke  of  refined  tastes  and  hos 
pitable  feelings — it  was  such  a  creation  as  only  the 
genius  of  a  thorough  home-artist  could  originate.  There 
are  artists  who  work  in  clay  and  marble,  there  are  artists 
in  water-colors,  and  artists  in  oils,  whose  works  are  on 
exhibition  through  galleries  and  museums:  but  there  are 
also,  in  thousands  of  obscure  homes,  domestic  artists,  who 
contrive  out  of  the  humblest  material  to  produce  in  daily 
life  the  sense  of  the  beautiful ;  to  cast  a  veil  over  its 
prosaic  details  and  give  it  something  of  the  charm  of  a 
poem. 

Eva  was  one  of  these,  and  everybody  that  entered 
her  house  felt  her  power  at  once  in  the  atmosphere  of 
grace  and  enjoyment  which  seemed  to  pervade  her 
rooms. 

But  there  was  underneath  all  this  an  unseen,  humble 
operator,  without  whom  one  step  in  the  direction  of  po 
etry  would  have  been  impossible ;  one  whose  sudden  with 
drawal  would  have  been  like  the  entrance  of  a  black 
frost  into  a  flower-garden,  leaving  desolation  and  un- 
sightliness  around:  and  this  strong  pivot  on  which  the 
order  and  beauty  of  all  the  fairy  contrivances  of  the 
little  mistress  turned  was  no  other  than  the  Irish  Mary 
McArthur,  cook,  chambermaid,  laundress,  and  general 
operator  and  adviser  of  the  whole. 


A   TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT.  53 

Mary  was  a  specimen  of  the  best  class  of  those 
women  whom  the  old  country  sends  to  our  shores.  She 
belonged  to  the  family  of  a  respectable  Irish  farmer,  and 
had  been  carefully  trained  in  all  household  economies 
and  sanctities.  A  school  kept  on  the  estate  of  their 
landlord  had  been  the  means  of  instructing  her  in  the 
elements  of  a  plain  English  education.  She  wrote  a  good 
hand,  was  versed  in  accounts,  and  had  been  instructed  in 
all  branches  of  needle-work  with  a  care  and  particularity 
from  which  our  American  schools  for  girls  might  take  a 
lesson.  A  strong  sense  of  character  pervaded  her  family 
life — a  sense  of  the  decorous,  the  becoming,  the  true  and 
honest,  such  as  often  gives  dignity  to  the  cottage  of  the 
laboring  man  of  the  old  world.  But  the  golden  stories 
of  wealth  to  be  gotten  in  America  had  induced  her  par 
ents  to  allow  Mary  with  her  elder  brother  to  try  their 
fortunes  on  these  unknown  shores.  Mary  had  been  for 
tunate  in  falling  into  the  Van  Arsdel  family;  for  Mrs.  Van 
Arsdel,  though  without  the  energy  or  the  patience  which 
would  have  been  necessary  to  control  or  train  an  inex 
perienced  and  unsteady  subject,  was,  on  the  whole,  anpre- 
ciative  of  the  sterling  good  qualities  of  Mary,  and  liberal 
and  generous  in  her  dealings  with  her. 

In  fact,  the  Van  Arsdels  were  in  all  things  a  free, 
careless,  good  natured,  merry  set,  and  Mary  reciprocated 
their  kindliness  to  her  with  all  the  warmth  of  her  Irish 
heart.  Eva  had  been  her  particular  pet  and  darling. 
She  was  a  pretty,  engaging  child  at  the  time  she  first 
came  into  the  family.  Mary  had  mended  her  clothes, 
tidied  her  room,  studied  her  fancies  and  tastes,  and  pet 
ted  her  generally  with  a  whole-souled  devotion.  "When 
you  get  a  husband,  Miss  Eva,"  she  would  say,  "  I  will 
come  and  live  with  you"  But  before  that  event  had 
come  to  pass,  Mary  had  given  her  whole  heart  to  an 
idle,  handsome,  worthless  fellow,  whom  she  appeared  to 


54  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

love  in  direct  proportion  to  his  good-for-nothingness. 
Two  daughters  were  the  offspring  of  this  marriage,  and 
then  Mary  became  a  widow,  and  had  come  with  her 
youngest  child  under  the  shadow  of  "  Miss  Eva's  "  roof- 
tree. 

Thus  much  to  give  back-ground  to  the  scenery  on 
which  Aunt  Maria  entered,on  the  morning  when  she  took 
the  omnibus  at  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel's  door. 

Eva  was  gone  out  when  the  door-bell  of  the  little 
house  rang.  Mary  looking  from  the  chamber  window 
saw  Mrs.  Wouvermans  standing  at  the  door  step.  Now 
against  this  good  lady  Mary  had  always  cherished  a 
secret  antagonism.  Nothing  so  awakens  the  animosity 
of  her  class  as  the  entrance  of  a  third  power  into  the  fam 
ily,  between  the  regnant  mistress  and  the  servants  ;  and 
Aunt  Maria's  intrusions  and  dictations 'had  more  than 
once  been  discussed  in  the  full  parliament  of  Mrs.  Van 
Arsdel's  servants.  Consequently  the  arrival  of  a  police 
officer  armed  with  a  search  warrant  could  not  have  been 
more  disagreeable  or  alarming.  In  an  instant  Mary's 
mental  eye  ran  over  all  her  own  demesne  and  premises — 
for  when  one  woman  is  both  chambermaid,  cook  and  laun 
dress,  it  may  well  be  that  each  part  of  these  different 
departments  cannot  be  at  all  times  in  a  state  of  absolute 
perfection.  There  was  a  cellar  table  that  she  had  been 
intending  this  very  morning  to  revise ;  there  were  various 
short-comings  in  pantry  and  closet  which  she  had  intend 
ed  to  set  in  order. 

But  the  course  of  Mrs.  Wouvermans  was  straight  and 
unflinching  as  justice.  A  brisk  interrogation  to  the  awe 
struck  little  maiden  who  opened  the  door  showed  her 
that  Eva  was  out,  and  the  field  was  all  before  her.  So 
she  marched  into  the  parlor,  and,  laying  aside  her  things, 
proceeded  to  review  the  situation.  From  the  parlor  to 
the  little  dining-room  was  the  work  of  a  moment ;  thence 


A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT.  55 

to  the  china  closet,  where  she  opened  cupboards  and 
drawers  and  took  note  of  their  contents ;  thence  to  the 
kitchen  and  kitchen  pantry,  where  she  looked  into  the 
flour  barrel,  the  sugar  barrel,  the  safe,  the  cake  box,  and 
took  notes. 

When  Mary  had  finished  her  chamber  work  and  came 
down  to  the  kitchen,  she  found  her  ancient  adversary 
emerging  from  the  cellar  with  several  leaves  of  cabbage 
in  her  hands  which  she  had  gathered  off  from  the  offend 
ing  table.  In  her  haste  to  make  a  salad  for  a  sudden 
access  of  company,  the  day  before,  Mary  had  left  these 
witnesses,  and  she  saw  that  her  sin  had  found  her  out. 

"Good  morning,  Mary,"  said  Mrs,  Wouvermans,  in 
the  curt,  dry  tone  that  she  used  in  speaking  to  servants, 
"  I  brought  up  these  cabbage  leaves  to  show  you.  Noth 
ing  is  more  dangerous,  Mary,  than  to  leave  any  refuse 
vegetables  in  a  cellar;  if  girls  are  careless  about  such 
matters  they  get  thrown  down  on  the  floor  and  rot  and 
send  up  a  poisonous  exhalation  that  breeds  fevers.  I 
have  known  whole  famiKes  poisoned  by  the  neglect  of 
girls  in  these  little  matters." 

"  Mrs.  Wouvermans,  I  was  intending  this  very  morn 
ing  to  come  down  and  attend  to  that  matter,  and  all  the 
Other  matters  about  the  house,"  said  Mary.  "  There  hrs 
been  company  here  this  week,  and  I  have  had  a  deal  to 
do." 

"  And  Mary,  you  ought  to  be  very  careful  never  to 
leave  the  lid  of  your  cake  box  up — it  dries  the  cake.  I 
am  very  particular  about  mine." 

"  And  so  am  I,  ma'am ;  and  if  my  cake  box  was  open 
it  is  because  somebody  has  been  to  it  since  I  shut  it.  It 
may  be  that  Mrs.  Henderson  has  taken  something 
out." 

"  I  noticed,  Mary,  a  broom  in  the  parlor  closet  not 
hung  up  ;  it  ruins  brooms  to  set  them  down  in  that  way." 


56  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

By  this  time  the  hot,  combative  blood  of  Ireland  rose 
in  Mary's  cheek,  and  she  turned  and  stood  at  bay. 

"  Mrs.  Wouvermans,  you  are  not  my  mistress,  and  this 
is  not  your  house;  and  I  am  not  going  to  answer  to  you, 
but  to  Mrs.  Henderson,  about  my  matters." 

"  Mary,  don't  you  speak  to  me  in  that  way,"  said  Mrs. 
Wouvermans,  drawing  herself  up. 

"I  shall  speak  in  just  that  way  to  anybody  who  comes 
meddling  with  what  they  have  no  business  with.  If  you 
was  my  mistress,  I'd  tell  you  to  suit  yourself  to  a  better 
girl;  and  I  shall  ask  Mrs.  Henderson  if  I  am  to  be  over 
looked  in  this  way.  No  lady  would  ever  do  it,"  said 
Mary,  with  a  hot  emphasis  on  the  word  lady,  and  tears 
of  wrath  in  her  eyes. 

"  There's  no  use  in  being  impertinent,  Mary,"  said 
Mrs.  Wouvermans,  with  stately  superiority,  as  she  turned 
and  sailed  up  stairs,  leaving  Mary  in  a  tempest  of  impo 
tent  anger. 

Just  about  this  time  Eva  returned  from  her  walk  with 
a  basket  full  of  cut  flowers,  <md  came  singing  into  the 
kitchen  and  began  arranging  flower  vases ;  not  having 
looked  into  the  parlor  on  her  way,  she  did  not  detect  the 
traces  of  Aunt  Maria's  presence. 

"  Well,  Mary,"  she  called,  in  her  usual  cheerful  tone, 
"come  and  look  at  my  flowers." 

But  Mary  came  not,  although  Eva  perceived  her  with 
her  back  turned  in  the  pantry. 

"  Why,  Mary,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  Eva,  follow 
ing  her  there  and  seeing  her  crying.  "  Why,  you  dear 
soul,  what  has  happened  ?  Are  you  sick  ?  " 

"  Your  Aunt  Maria  has  been  here." 

"Oh,  the  horrors,  Mary.  Poor  Aunt  Maria!  you 
mustn't  mind  a  word  she  says.  Don't  worry,  now — don't 
— you  know  Aunt  Maria  is  always  saying  things  to  us 
girls,  but  we  don't  mind  it,  and  you  mustn't;  we  know 


A   TEMPEST  IN  A   TEAPOT.  57 

she  means  well,  and  we  just  let  it  pass  for  what  it's 
worth." 

"  Yes ;  you  are  young  ladies,  and  I  am  only  a  poor 
woman,  and  it  comes  hard  on  me.  She's  been  round 
looking  into  every  crack  and  corner,  and  picked  up  those 
old  cabbage  leaves,  and  talked  to  me  about  keeping  a 
cellar  that  would  give  you  all  a  fever — it's  too  bad.  You 
know  yesterday  I  hurried  and  cut  up  that  cabbage  to  help 
make  out  the  dinner  when  those  gentlemen  came  in  and 
we  had  only  the  cold  mutton,  and  I  was  going  to  clear 
them  away  this  very  morning." 

"  I  know  it,  Mary ;  and  you  do  the  impossible  for  us 
all  twenty  times  a  day,  if  you  did  drop  cabbage  leaves 
once ;  and  Aunt  Maria  has  no  business  to  be  poking  about 
my  house  and  prying  into  our  management ;  but,  you  see, 
Mary,  she's  my  aunt,  and  I  can't  quarrel  with  her.  I'm 
sorry,  but  we  must  just  bear  it  as  well  as  we  can — now 
promise  not  to  mind  it — for  my  sake." 

"  Well,  for  your  sake,  Miss  Eva,"  said  Mary,  wiping 
her  eyes. 

"You  know  we  all  think  you  are  a  perfect  jewel, 
Mary,  and  couldn't  get  along  a  minute  without  you.  As 
to  Aunt  Maria,  she's  old,  and  set  in  her  way,  and  the 
best  way  is  not  to  mind  her." 

And  Mary  was  consoled,  and  went  on  her  way  with 
courage,  and  with  about  as  much  charity  for  Mrs.  Wou- 
vermans  as  an  average  good  Christian  under  equal  pro- 
vocation. 

Eva  went  on  singing  and  making  up  her  vases,  and 
carried  them  into  the  parlor,  and  was  absorbed  in 
managing  their  respective  positions,  when  Aunt  Maria 
came  down  from  her  tour  in  the  chambers. 

'"  Seems  to  me,  Eva,  that  your  hired  girl's  room  is 
furnished  up  for  a  princess,"  she  began,  after  the  morn 
ing  greetings  had  been  exchanged. 


58  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"What,  Mary's?  Well,  Mary  has  a  great  deal  of 
neatness  and  taste,  and  always  took  particular  pride  in 
her  room  when  she  lived  at  mamma's,  and  so  I  have 
arranged  hers  with  special  care.  Harry  got  her  those 
pictures  of  the  Madonna  and  infant  Jesus,  and  I  gave  the 
bdnitier  for  holy  water,  over  her  bed.  We  matted  the 
floor  nicely,  and  I  made  that  toilet  table,  and  -draped  her 
looking-glass  out  of  an  old  muslin  dress  of  mine.  The 
pleasure  Mary  takes  in  it  all  makes  it  really  worth  while 
to  gratify  her." 

"  I  never  pet  servants,"  said  Mrs.  Wouvermans, 
briefly.  "Depend  on  it,  Eva,  when  you've  lived  as  long 
as  I  have,  you'll  find  it  isn't  the  way.  It  makes  them 
presumptuous  and  exacting.  Why,  at  first,  when  I  blun 
dered  into  Mary's  room,  I  thought  it  must  be  yours — it 
had  such  an  air." 

"  Well,  as  to  the  air,  it's  mostly  due  to  Mary's  perfect 
neatness  and  carefulness.  I'm  sorry  to  say  you  wouldn't 
always  find  my  room  as  trimly  arranged  as  hers,  for  I 
am  a  sad  hand  to  throw  things  about  when  I  am  in  a 
hurry.  I  love  order,  but  I  like  somebody  else  to  keep  it." 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  returning  with  persist 
ence  to  her  subject,  "  that  you  are  beginning  wrong  with 
Mary,  and  you'll  have  trouble  in  the  end.  Now  I  saw 
she  had  white  sugar  in  the  kitchen  sugar-bowl,  and  there 
was  the  tea  caddy  for  her  to  go  to.  It's  abominable  to 
have  servants  feel  that  they  must  use  such  tea  as  we  do." 

"Oh,  well,  aunty,  you  know  Mary  has  been  in  the 
family  so  long  I  don't  feel  as  if  she  were  a  servant;  she 
seems  like  a  friend,  and  I  treat  her  like  one.  I  believe 
Mary  really  loves  us." 

"It  don't  do  to  mix  sentiment  and  business,"  said 
Aunt  Maria,  with  sententious  emphasis.  "I  never  do. 
I  don't  want  my  servants  to  love  me — that  is  not  what  I 
have  them  for.  I  want  them  to  do  my  work,  and  take 


A   TEMPEST  IN  A   TEAPOT.  59 

their  wages.  They  understand  that  there  are  to  be  no 
favors — everything  is  specifically  set  down  in  the  bargain 
I  make  with  them ;  their  work  is  all  marked  out.  I 
never  talk  with  them,  or  encourage  them  to  talk  to  me, 
and  that  is  the  way  we  get  along." 

"  Dear  me,  Aunt  Maria,  that  may  be  all  very  well  for 
such  an  energetic,  capable  housekeeper  as  you  are,  who 
always  know  exactly  how  to  manage,  but  such  a  poor 
little  thing  as  I  am  can't  set  up  in  that  way.  Now  I 
think  it's  a  great  mercy  and  favor  to  have  a  trained  girl 
that  knows  more  about  how  to  get  on  than  I  do,  and 
that  is  fond  of  me.  Why,  I  know  rich  people  that  would 
be  only  too  glad  to  give  Mary  double  what  we  give,  just 
to  have  somebody  to  depend  on. 

"  But,  Eva,  child,  you're  beginning  wrong — you  ought 
not  to  leave  things  to  Mary  as  you  do.  You  ought 
to  attend  to  everything  yourself.  I  always  do." 

"But  you  see,  aunty,  the  case  is  very  different  with 
you  and  me.  You  are  so  very  capable  and  smart,  and 
know  so  exactly  how  everything  ought  to  be  done,  you 
can  make  your  own  terms  with  everybody.  And,  now  I 
think  of  it,  how  lucky  that  you  came  in  !  I  want  you  to 
give  me  your  judgment  as  to  two  pieces  of  linen  that 
I've  just  had  sent  in.  You  know,  Aunty,  I  am  such  a 
perfect  ignoramus  about  these  matters." 

And  Eva  tripped  up  stairs,  congratulating  herself  on 
turning  the  subject,  and  putting  her  aunt's  busy  advising 
faculties  to  some  harmless  and  innocent  use.  So,  when 
she  came  down  with  her  two  pieces  of  linen,  Aunt  Maria 
tested  and  pulled  them  this  way  and  that,  in  the  ap 
proved  style  of  a  domestic  expert,  and  gave  judgment  at 
last  with  an  authoritative  air. 

"  This  is  the  best,  Eva — you  see  it  has  a  round 
thread,  and  very  little  dressing." 

"And  why  is  the  round  thread  the  best,  Aunty?  " 


60  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"Oh,  because  it  always  is — everybody  knows  that, 
child ;  all  good  judges  will  tell  you  to  buy  the  round 
threaded  linen,  that's  perfectly  well  understood." 

Eva  did  not  pursue  the  inquiry  farther,  and  we  must 
all  confess  that  Mrs.  Wouverman's  reply  was  about  as 
satisfactory  as  those  one  gets  to  most  philosophical  in 
quiries  as  to  why  and  wherefore.  If  our  reader  doubts 
that,  let  him  listen  to  the  course  of  modern  arguments  on 
some  of  the  most  profound  problems ;  so  far  as  can  be 
seen,  they  consist  of  inflections  of  Aunt  Maria's  style  of 
statement — as,  "  Oh,  of  course  everybody  knows  that, 
now;"  or,  negatively,  "Oh,  nobody  believes  that,  now-a- 
days."  Surely,  a  mode  of  argument  which  very  wise 
persons  apply  fearlessly  to  subjects  like  death,  judgment 
and  eternity,  may  answer  for  a  piece  of  linen. 

"  Oh,  by-the-by,  Eva,  I  see  you  have  cards  there  for 
Mrs.  Wat  Sydney's  receptions  this  winter,"  said  Aunt 
Maria,  turning  her  attention  to  the  card  plate.  "They 
are  going  to  be  very  brilliant,  I'm  told.  They  s'ay  noth 
ing  like  their  new  house  is  to  be  seen  in  this  country." 

"Yes,"  said  Eva,  "Sophie  has  been  down  here  urging 
me  to  come  up  and  see  her  rooms,  and  says  they  depend 
on  me  for  their  receptions,  and  I'm  going  up  some  day 
to  lunch  with  her,  in  a  quiet  way ;  but  Harry  and  I  have 
about  made  up  our  minds  that  we  sha'n't  go  to  parties. 
You  know,  Aunty,  we  are  going  in  for  economy,  and 
this  sort  of  thing  costs  so  much." 

"But,  bless  your  soul,  child,  what  is  money  for?" 
said  Aunt  Maria,  innocently.  "If  you  have  any  thing 
you  ought  to  improve  your  advantages  of  getting  on  in 
society.  It's  important  to  Harry  in  his  profession  to  be 
seen  and  heard  of,  and  to  push  his  way  among  the  nota 
bles,  and,  with  due  care  and  thought  and  economy,  a  per 
son  with  your  air  and  style,  and  your  taste,  can  appear  as 
well  as  anybody.  I  came  down  here,  among  other 


A    TEMPEST  IN  A   TEAPOT.  61 

things,  to  look  over  your  dresses,  and  see  what  can  be 
done  with  them." 

"Oh,  thank  you  a  thousand  times,  Aunty  dear,  but 
what  do  you  think  all  my  little  wedding  finery  would  do 
for  me  in  an  assemblage  of  Worth's  spick-and-span  new 
toilettes?  In  our  own  little  social  circles  I  am  quite  a 
leader  of  the  mode,  but  I  should  look  like  an  old  last 
night's  bouquet  among  all  their  fresh  finery !  " 

"Well,  now,  Eva,  child,  you  talk  of  economy  and  all 
that,  and  then  go  spending  on  knick-knacks  and  mere 
fancies  what  would  enable  you  to  make  a  very  creditable 
figure  in  society." 

"Really,  Aunty,  is  it  possible  now,  when  I  thought 
we  were  being  so  prudent?  " 

"Well,  there's  your  wood  fire,  for  instance;  very 
cheerful,  I  admit,  but  it's  a  downright  piece  of  extrava 
gance.  I  know  that  the -very  richest  and  most  elegant 
people,  that  have  everything  they  can  think  of,  have 
fallen  back  on  the  fancy  of  having  open  wood  fires  in 
their  parlors,  just  for  a  sort  of  ornament  to  their  rooms, 
but  you  don't  really  need  it — your  furnace  keeps  you 
warm  enough." 

"But,  Aunty,  it  looks  so  bright  and  cheerful,  and 
Harry  is  so  fond  of  it !  We  only  have  it  evenings,  when 
he  comes  home  tired,  and  he  says  the  very  sight  of  it 
rests  him." 

"  There  you  go,  now,  Eva — with  wood  at  fifteen  dol 
lars  a  cord ! — going  in  for  a  mere  luxury  just  because  it 
pleases  your  fancy,  and  you  can't  go  into  society  because 
it's  so  expensive.  Eva,  child,  that's  just  like  you.  And 
there  are  twenty  other  little  things  that  I  see  about  here," 
said  Aunt  Maria,  glancing  round,  "pretty  enough,  but 
each  costs  a  little.  There,  for  instance,  those  cut  flowers 
in  the  vases  cost  something." 

"  But,  Aunty,  I  got  them  of  a  poor  little  man  just  set- 


62  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

ting  up  a  green-house,  and  Harry  and  I  have  made  up 
our  minds  that  it's  our  duty  to  patronize  him.  I'm 
going  up  to  Sophie's  to  get  her  to  take  flowers  for  her 
parties  of  him." 

"It's  well  enough  to  get  Sophie  to  do  it,  but  you 
oughtn't  to  afford  it,"  said  Aunt  Maria;  "nor  need  you 
buy  a  new  matting  and  pictures  for  your  servant's  room." 

"  Oh,  Aunty,  mattings  are  so  cheap ;  and  those  pict 
ures  didn't  cost  much,  and  they  make  Mary  so  happy !  " 

"  Oh,  she'd  be  happy  enough  any  way.  You  ought  to 
look  out  a  little  for  yourself,  child." 

"  Well,  I  do.  Now,  just  look  at  the  expense  of  going 
to  parties.  To  begin  with,  it  annihilates  all  your  dress 
es,  at  one  fell  swoop.  If  I  make  up  my  mind,  for  in 
stance,  not  to  go  to  parties  this  winter,  I  have  dresses 
enough  and  pretty  enough  for  all  my  occasions.  The 
minute  I  decide  I  must  go,  I  have  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing,  to  wear.  There  must  be  an  immediate  outlay. 
A  hundred  dollars  would  be  a  small  estimate  for  all  the 
additions  necessary  to  make  me  appear  with  credit. 
Even  if  I  take  my  old  dresses  as  the  foundation,  and  use 
my  unparalleled  good  taste,  there  are  trimmings,  and 
dressmaker's  bills,  and  gloves,  and  slippers,  and  fifty 
things ;  and  then  a  carriage  for  the  evening,  at  five  dol 
lars  a  night,  and  all  for  what?  What  does  anybody  get 
at  a  great  buzzing  party, to  pay  for  all  this?  Then  Harry 
has  to  use  all  his  time,  and  all  his  nerves,  and  all  his 
strength  on  his  work.  He  is  driven  hard  all  the  time 
with  writing,  making  up  the  paper,  and  overseeing  at 
the  office.  And  you  know  parties  don't  begin  till  near 
ten  o'clock,  and  if  he  is  out  till  twelve  he  doesn't  rest 
well,  nor  I  either — it's  just  so  much  taken  out  of  our 
life — and  we  don't  either  of  us  enjoy  it.  Now,  why 
should  we  put  out  our  wood  fire  that  we  do  enjoy,  and 
scrimp  in  our  flowers,  and  scrimp  in  our  home  comforts, 


A   TEMPEST  IN  A   TEAPOT.  G3 

and  in  our  servant's  comforts,  just  to  get  what  we  don't 
want  after  all  ?  " 

"Oh,  well,  I  suppose  you  are  like  other  new  married 
folks,  you  want  to  play  Darby  and  Joan  in  your  chimney- 
corner,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  "but,  for  all  that,  I  think 
there  are  duties  to  society.  One  cannot  go  out  of  the 
world,  you  know;  it  don't  do,  Eva." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Eva.  "  We  are  going 
to  try  it."' 

"  What !  living  without  society?  " 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  we  shall  see  our  friends  other  ways. 
I  can  see  Sophie  a  great  deal  better  in  a  quiet  morning- 
call  than  an  evening  reception  ;  for  the  fact  is,  whoever 
else  you  see  at  a  party  you  don't  see  your  hostess — she 
hasn't  a  word  for  you.  Then,  I'm  going  to  have  an 
evening  here." 

"  You  an  evening?  " 

"Yes;  why  not?  See  if  I  don't,  and  we'll  have  good 
times,  too." 

"  Why,  who  do  you  propose  to  invite  ?  " 

"Oh,  all  our  folks,  and  Bolton  and  Jim  Fel&jws;  then 
there  are  a  good  many  interesting,  intelligent  men 
that  write  for  the  magazine,  and  besides,  our  acquaint 
ances  on  this  street." 

"In  this  street?  Why,  there  isn't  a  creature  here," 
said  Aunt  Maria. 

"Yes,  there  are  those  old  ladies  across  the  way." 

"What!  old  Miss  Dorcas  Vanderheyden  and  that 
Mrs.  Benthusen  ?  Well,  they  belong  to  an  ancient  New 
York  family,  to  be  sure;  but  they  are  old  as  Methu- 
saleh." 

"  So  much  the  better,  Aunty.  Old  things,  you  know, 
are  all  the  rage  just  now;  and  then  there's  my  little 
Quaker  neighbor." 

"Why,  hovf  odd!     They  are  nice  enough,  I  suppose, 


64  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

and  well  enough  to  have  for  neighbors;  but  he's 
nothing  but  a  watchmaker.  He  actually  works  for 
Tiffany !  " 

"Yes;  but  he  is  a  very  modest,  intelligent  young  man, 
and  very  well  informed  on  certain  subjects.  Harry  says 
he  has  learned  a  great  deal  from  him." 

"  Well,  well,  child,  I  suppose  you  must  take  your  own 
way,"  said  Aunt  Maria. 

"I  suppose  we  must,"  said  Eva,  shaking  her  head 
with  much  gravity.  "  You  see,  Aunty,  dear,  a  wife  must 
accommodate  herself  to  her  husband,  and  if  Harry  thinks 
this  is  the  best  way,  you  know — and  he  does  think  so, 
very  strongly — and  isn't  it  lucky  that  I  think  just  as  he 
does  ?  You  wouldn't  have  me  fall  in  with  those  strong- 
minded  Bloomer  women,  would  you,  and  sail  the  ship 
on  my  own  account,  independently  of  my  husband  ?  " 

Now,  the  merest  allusion  to  modern  strong-minded 
ness  in  woman  was  to  Aunt  Maria  like  a  red  rag  to  a 
bull ;  it  aroused  all  her  combativeness. 

"  No;  I  am  sure  I  wouldn't,"  she  said,  with  emphasis. 
"  If  there's  anything,  Eva,  where  I  see  the  use  of  all  my 
instructions  to  you,  it  is  the  good  sense  with  which  you 
resist  all  such  new-fangled,  abominable  notions  about  the 
rights  and  sphere  of  women.  No;  I've  always  said  that 
the  head  of  the  woman  is  the  man;  and  it's  a  wife's  duty 
to  live  to  please  her  husband.  She  may  try  to  influence 
him — she  ought  to  do  that — but  she  never  ought  to  do  it 
openly.  I  never  used  to  oppose  Mr.  Wouvermans.  I  was 
always  careful  to  let  him  suppose  he  was  having  his  own 
way;  but  I  generally  managed  to  get  mine,"  and  Aunt 
Maria  plumed  herself  and  nodded  archly,  as  an  aged 
priestess  who  is  communicating  to  a  young  neophyte 
secrets  of  wisdom. 

In  her  own  private  mind,  Eva  thought  this  the  most 
terrible  sort  of  hypocrisy;  but  her  aunt  was  so  settled 


A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT.  65 

and  contented  in  all  her  own  practical  views,  that  there 
was  not  the  least  use  in  arguing  the  case.  However, 
she  couldn't  help  saying,  innocently, 

"  But,  Aunty,  I  should  be  afraid  sometimes  he  would 
have  found  me  out,  and  then  he'd  be  angry." 

"Oh,  no;  trust  me  for  that,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  com 
placently.  "I  never  managed  so  bunglingly  as  that. 
Somehow  or  other,  he  didn't  exactly  know  how,  he  found 
things  coming  round  my  way ;  but  I  never  opposed  him 
openly — I  never  got  his  back  up.  You  see,  Eva,  these 
men,  if  they  do  get  their  backs  up,  are  terrible,  but  any 
of  them  can  be  led  by  the  nose — so  I'm  glad  to  find  that 
you  begin  the  right  way.  Now,  there's  your  mother — 
I've  been  telling  her  this  morning  that  it's  her  duty  to 
make  your  father  go  back  into  business  and  retrieve  his 
fortunes.  He's  got  a  good  position,  to  be  sure — a  re 
spectable  salary;  but  there's  no  sort  of  reason  why  he 
shouldn't  die  worth  his  two  or  three  millions  as  well  as 
half  the  other  men  who  fail,  and  are  up  again  in  two  or 
three  years.  But  Nellie  wants  force.  She  is  no  man 
ager.  If  I  were  your  father's  wife,  I  should  set  him  on 
his  feet  again  pretty  soon.  Nellie  is  such  a  little  depend 
ent  body.  She  was  saying  this  morning  how  would  she 
ever  have  got  along  with  her  family  without  me!  But 
there  are  some  things  that  even  I  can't  do — nobody  but 
a  wife  could,  and  Nelly  isn't  up  to  it." 

"  Poor,  dear  little  mamma,"  said  Eva.  "But  are  you 
quite  sure,  Aunt  Maria,  that  her  ways  are  not  better 
adapted  to  papa  than  any  one's  else  could  be?  Papa  is 
very  positive,  though  so  very  quiet.  He  is  devoted  to 
mamma.  Then,  again,  Aunty,  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
risk  in  going. into  speculations  and  enterprises  at  papa's 
age.  Of  course,  you  know  I  don't  know  anything  about 
business  or  that  sort  of  thing;  but  it  seems  to  me  like  a 
great  sea  where  you  are  up  on  the  wave  to-day  and  down 


66  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

to-morrow.  So  if  papa  really  wont  go  into  these  things, 
perhaps  it's  all  for  the  best." 

"  But,  Eva,  it  is  so  important  now  for  the  girls,  poor 
things,  just  going  into  society — for  you  know  they  can't 
keep  out  of  it,  even  if  you  do.  It  will  affect  all  their 
chances  of  settlement  in  life — and  that  puts  me  in  mind, 
Eva,  something  or  other  must  be  done  about  Alice  and 
Jim  Fellows.  Everybody  is  saying  if  they're  not  engaged 
they  ought  to  be." 

"  Oh,  Aunty,  how  exasperating  the  world  is!  Can't  a 
man  and  woman  have  a  plain,  honest  friendship  ?  Jim 
has  shown  himself  a  true  friend  to  our  family.  He  came 
to  us  just  in  all  the  confusion  of  the  failure,  and  helped  us 
heart  and  hand  in  the  manliest  way — and  we  all  like  him. 
Alice  likes  him,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  it." 

"Well,  are  they  engaged?"  said  Aunt  Maria,  with  an 
air  of  statistical  accuracy. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  I  never  thought  of  asking. 
I'm  not  a  police  detective,  and  I  always  think  that  if  my 
friends  have  anything  they  want  me  to  know,  they'll  tell 
me;  and  if  they  don't  want  me  to  know,  why  should  I  ask 
them  ?  " 

"  But,  Eva,  one  is  responsible  for  one's  relations. 
The  fact  is,  such  an  intimacy  stands  right  in  the  way 
of  a  girl's  having  good  offers — it  keeps  other  parties  off. 
Now,  I  tell  you,  as  a  great  secret,  there  is  a  very  fine  man, 
immensely  rich,  and  every  way  desirable,  who  is  evidently 
pleased  with  Alice." 

"  Dear  me,  Aunty !  how  you  excite  my  curiosity. 
Pray  who  is  it  ?  "  said  Eva. 

"  Well,  I7m  not  at  liberty  to  tell  you  more  particu 
larly;  but  I  know  he's  thinking  about  her;  and  this 
report  about  her  and  Jim  would  operate  very  prejudi 
cially.  Now  shall  I  have  a  talk  with  Alice,  or  will  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Aunty  dear,  don't,  for  pity's  sake,  say  a  word  to 


A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT.  67 

Alice.  Young  girls  are  so  sensitive  about  such  things. 
If  it  must  be  talked  of,  let  me  talk  with  Alice." 

"I  really  thought,  if  I  had  a  good  chance,  I'd  say 
something  to  the  young  man  himself,"  said  Aunt  Maria, 
reflectively. 

"  Oh,  good  heavens !  Aunty,  don't  think  of  it.  You 
don't  know  Jim  Fellows." 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  me,"  said  Aunt  Maria. 
"  I  am  a  great  deal  older  and  more  experienced  than  you, 
and  if  I  do  do  anything,  you  may  rest  assured  it  will  be 
in  the  most  discreet  way.  I've  managed  cases  of  this 
kind  before  you  were  born." 

"  But  Jim  is  the  most  peculiar  " — 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  him.  Do  you  suppose  I've 
seen  him  in  and  out  in  the  family  all  this  time  without 
understanding  him  perfectly  ?  " 

"  But  I  don't  really  think  that  there  is  the  least  of 
anything  serious  between  him  and  Alice." 

"  Very  likely.  He  would  not  be  at  all  the  desirable 
match  for  Alice.  He  has  very  little  property,  and  is 
rather  a  wild,  rattling  fellow ;  and  I  don't  like  newspaper 
men  generally." 

"  Oh,  Aunty,  that's  severe  now.     You  forget  Harry." 

"  Oh,  well,  your  husband  is  an  exception ;  but,  as  a 
general  rule,  I  don't  like  'em — unprincipled  lot  /  be 
lieve,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  with  a  decisive  nod  of  her  head. 
"  At  any  rate,  Alice  can  do  better,  and  she  ought  to." 

The  ringing  of  the  lunch  bell  interrupted  the  conver 
sation,  much  to  the  relief  of  Eva,  who  discovered  with 
real  alarm  the  course  her  respected  relative's  thoughts 
were  taking. 

Of  old  she  had  learned  that  the  only  result  of  argu 
ing  a  point  with  her  was  to  make  her  more  set  in  her  own 
way,  and  she  therefore  bent  all  her  forces  of  agreeable- 
ness  to  produce  a  diversion  of  mind  to  other  topics.  On 


68  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

the  principle  that  doctors  apply  mustard  to  the  feet,  to 
divert  the  too  abundant  blood  from. the  head,  Eva  started 
a  brisk  controversy  with  Aunt  Maria  on  another  topic, 
in  hopes,  by  exhausting  her  energies  there,  to  put  this 
out  of  her  mind.  With  what  success  her  strategy  was 
crowned,  it  will  remain  to  be  seen. 


CHAPTER    VT. 

THE   SETTLING    OF    THE    WATERS. 

« 

TT  will  not  be  doubted  by  those  who  know  the  ways  of 
JL  family  dictators  that  Mrs.  Maria  Wouvermans  left 
Eva's  house  after  her  day's  visit  in  a  state  of  the  most 
balmy  self-satisfaction,  as  one  who  has  done  a  gjood  day's 
work. 

"  Well,  I  Ve  been  up  at  Eva's,"  she  said  to  her  sister, 
as  she  looked  in  on  returning,  "  and  really  it  was  well  I 
went  in.  That  Mary  of  hers  is  getting  careless  and  negli 
gent,  just  as  all  old  servants  do,  and  I  just  went  over  the 
whole  house,  and  had  a  plain  talk  with  Mary.  She  flew  up 
about  it,  and  was  impertinent,  of  course ;  but  I  put  her 
down,  and  I  talked  plainly  to  Eva  about  the  way  she  's 
beginning  with  her  servants.  She  's  just  like  you,  Nellie, 
slack  and  good-natured,  and  needs  somebody  to  keep 
her  up.  I  told  her  the  way  she  is  beginning — of  petting 
Mary,  and  fussing  up  her  room  with  carpet  and  pictures, 
and  everything,  just  like  any  other — would  n't  work. 
Servants  must  be  kept  in  their  places/' 

Now,  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  had  a  spirit  of  her  own ;  and 
the  off-hand,  matter-of-fact  manner  in  which  her  sister 
was  accustomed  to  speak.of  her  as  no  manager  touched  a 
vital  point.  What  housekeeper  likes  to  have  her  capacity 
to  guide  a  house  assailed  ?  Is  not  that  the  spot  where 
her  glory  dwells,  if  she  has  any  ?  And  it  is  all  the  more 
provoking  when  such  charges  are  thrown  out  in  perfect 
good  nature,  not  as  designed  to  offend,  but  thrown  in 
par  parenthtse,  as  something  everybody  would  acknowl- 


70  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

edge,  and  too  evident  to  require  discussion.  While  pro 
ceeding  in  the  main  part  of  a  discourse  Mrs.  Wouvermans 
was  quite  in  the  habit  of  these  frank  side  disclosures  of 
her  opinion  of  her  sister's  management,  and  for  the  most 
part  they  were  submitted  to  in  acquiescent  silence,  rather 
than  to  provoke  a  controversy  ;  but  to  be  called  "  slack  " 
to  her  face  without  protest  or  rejoinder  was  more  than 
she  could  bear ;  so  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  spoke  up  with  spirit : 

"  Maria,  you  are  always  talking  as  if  I  do  n't  know 
how  to  manage  servants.  All  I  know  is  that  you  are 
always  changing, and  I  keep  mine  years  and  years." 

"  That 's  because  you  let  them  have  their  own  way," 
said  her  sister.  "  You  can  keep  servants  if  you  do  n't 
follow  them  up,  and  insist  on  it  that  they  shall  do  their 
duty.  Let  them  run  all  over  you  and  live  like  mistresses, 
arid  you  can  keep  them.  For  my  part,  I  like  to  change 
— new  brooms  always  sweep  clean." 

"  Well,  it 's  a  different  thing,  Maria — you  with  your 
small  family,  and  mine  with  so  many.  I  'd  rather  bear  any 
thing  than  change." 

"  Oh,  well,  yes ;  I  suppose  there  's  no  help  for  it, 
Nellie.  Of  course  I  was  n't  blaming  you,  so  do  n't  fire 
up  about  it.  I  know  you  can  't  make  yourself  over," 
said  Aunt  Maria.  This  was  the  tone  with  which  she 
usually  settled  discussions  with  those  who  differed  from 
her  on  modes  and  measures.  After  all,  they  could  not 
be  like  her,  so  where  was  the  use  of  talking  ? 

Aunt  Maria  also  had  the  advantage  in  all  such  en 
counters  of  a  confessed  reputation  as  an  excellent  man 
ager.  Her  house  was  always  elegant,  always  in  order. 
She  herself  was  gifted  with  a  head  for  details  that  never 
failed  to  keep  in  mind  the  smallest  item,  and  a  wiry, 
compact  constitution  that  never  knew  fatigue.  She  held 
the  keys  of  everything  in  her  house,  and  always  turned 
every  key  at  the  right  moment.  She  knew  the  precise 


THE  SETTLING  OF  THE   WATERS.  ?1 

weight,  quantity,  and  quality  of  everything  she  had  in 
possession,  where  it  was  and  what  it  might  be  used  for ; 
and,  as  she  said,  could  go  to  anything  in  her  house  with 
out  a  candle  in  the  darkest  night.  If  her  servants  did 
not  love,  they  feared  her,  and  had  such  a  sense  of  her 
ever  vigilant  inspection  that  they  never  even  tried  to 
evade  her.  For  the  least  shadow  of  disobedience  she 
was  ready  to  send  them  away  at  a  moment's  warning, 
and  then  go  to  the  intelligence  office  and  enter  her  name 
for  another,  and  come  home,  put  on  apron  and  gloves, 
and  manfully  and  thoroughly  sustain  the  department  till 
they  came. 

Mrs.  Wouvermans,  therefore,  was  celebrated  and  laud 
ed  by  all  her  acquaintances  as  a  perfect  housekeeper,  and 
this  added  sanction  and  terror  to  her  pronunciamentos 
when  she  walked  the  rounds  as  a  police  inspector  in  the 
houses  of  her  relations. 

It  is  rather  amusing  to  a  general  looker-on  in  this  odd 
world  of  ours  to  contrast  the  serene,  cheerful  good  faith 
with  which  these  constitutionally  active  individuals  go 
about  criticising,  and  suggesting,  and  directing  right  and 
left,  with  the  dismay  and  confusion  of  mind  they  leave 
behind  them  wherever  they  operate. 

They  are  often  what  the  world  calls  well-meaning  peo 
ple,  animated  by  a  most  benevolent  spirit,  and  have  no 
more  intention  of  giving  offense  than  a  nettle  has  of 
stinging.  A  large,  vigorous,  well-growing  nettle  has  no 
consciousness  of  the  stings  it  leaves  in  the  delicate  hands 
that  have  been  in  contact  with  it ;  it  has  simply  acted  out 
its  innocent  and  respectable  nature  as  a  nettle.  But  a 
nettle  armed  with  the  power  of  locomotion  on  an  ambu 
latory  tour,  is  something  the  results  of  which  may  be 
fearful  to  contemplate. 

So,  after  the  departure  of  Aunt  Maria  our  little 
housekeeper,  Eva,  was  left  in  a  state  of  considerable 


72  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

nervousness  and  anxiety,  feeling  that  she  had  been 
weighed  in  the  balance  of  perfection  and  found  wofully 
wanting.  She  was  conscious,  to  begin  with,  that  her 
characteristic  virtues  as  a  housekeeper,  if  she  had  any, 
were  not  entirely  in  the  style  of  her  good  relative.  She 
was  not  by  nature  statistical,  nor  given  to  accounts  and 
figures.  She  was  not  sharp  and  keen  in  bargains;  she 
was,  she  felt  in  her  inmost,  trembling  soul,  a  poor  little 
mollusk,  without  a  bit  of  a  shell,  hiding  in  a  cowardly 
way  under  a  rock  and  ready  at  any  time  to  be  eaten  up 
by  big  fishes.  She  had  felt  so  happy  in  her  unlimited 
trust  in  Mary,  who  knew  more  than  she  did  about  house 
keeping — but  she  had  been  convicted  by  her  aunt's  cross- 
questions  of  having  resigned  the  very  signet  ring  and 
scepter  of  her  house  into  her  hands.  Did  she  let  Mary 
go  all  over  the  house  ?  Did  she  put  away  the  washing  ? 
Did  Eva  allow  her  to  open  her  drawers  ?  Did  n't  she 
count  her  towels  and  sheets  every  week,  and  also  her 
tea-spoons,  and  keep  every  drawer  and  cupboard  locked  ? 
She  ought  to.  To  all  these  inquiries  Eva  had  no  satis 
factory  response,  and  began  to  doubt  within  herself 
whether  she  had  begun  aright.  With  sensitive,  conscien 
tious  people  there  is  always  a  residuum  of  self-distrust 
after  discussions  of  the  nature  we  have  indicated,  how 
ever  vigorously  and  skillfully  they  may  have  defended 
their  courses  at  the  time. 

Eva  went  over  and  over  in  her  own  mind  her  self- 
justifications — she  told  herself  that  she  and  her  aunt  were 
essentially  different  people,  incapable  of  understanding 
each  other  sympathetically  or  acting  in  each  other's  ways, 
and  that  the  well-meant,  positive  dicta  of  her  relative 
were  to  be  let  go  for  what  they  were  worth,  and  no  more. 

Still  she  looked  eagerly  and  anxiously  for  the  re 
turn  of  her  husband,  that  she  might  reinforce  herself 
by  talking  it  over  with  him.  Hers  was  a  nature  so 


TALKING  IT  OVER. 

Come  now.  Puss,  out  -with  it.      Why  that  anxious  brow?     What 
domestic  catastrophe  ?  '  — p.  73. 


THE  SETTLING  OF  THE   WATERS.  73 

transparent  that,  before  he  had  been  five  minutes  in  the 
house,  he  felt  that  something  had  gone  wrong ;  but,  the 
dinner-bell  ringing,  he  retired  at  once  to  make  his 
toilet,  and  did  not  open  the  subject  till  they  were  fairly 
seated  at  table. 

"Well,  come  now,  Puss — out  with  it!  Why  that 
anxious  brow?  What  domestic  catastrophe?  Anything 
gone  wrong  with  the  ivies  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  the  ivies  are  all  right,  growing  beautifully 
— it  isn't  that — " 

"Well,  then,  what  is  it?  It  seems  there  is  some 
thing." 

"Oh,  nothing,  Harry;  only  Aunt  Maria  has  been 
spending  the  day  here." 

Eva  said  this  with  such  a  perplexed  and  woful  face 
that  Harry  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed. 

"What  a  blessing  it  is  to  have  relations,"  he  said; 
"  but  I  thought,  Eva,  that  you  had  made  up  your  mind 
not  to  care  for  anything  Aunt  Maria  says  ?  " 

"Well,  she  has  been  all  over  the  house,  surveying 
and  reviewing  as  if  she  owned  us,  and  she  has  lect 
ured  Mary  and  got  her  into  hysterics,  and  talked  to 
me  till  I  am  almost  bewildered — wondering  at  every 
thing  we  mean  to  do,  and  wanting  us  to  take  her  ways 
and  not  ours." 

"  My  dearest  child,  why  need  you  care  ?  Take  it  as 
a  rain-storm,  when  you  Ve  been  caught  out  without  your 
umbrella.  That 's  all.  Or  why  can  't  you  simply  and 
firmly  tell  her  that  she  must  not  go  over  your  house  or 
direct  your  servants  ?  " 

"Well,  you  see,  that  would  never  do.  She  would 
feel  so  injured  and  abused.  I've  only  just  made  up 
and  brought  things  to  going  smoothly,  and  got  her  paci 
fied  about  our  marriage.  There  would  be  another  fuss  if 
I  should  talk  that  way.  Aunt  Maria  always  considered 
D 


74  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

me  her  girl,  and  maintains  that  she  is  a  sort  of  spe 
cial  guardian  to  me,  and  I  think  it  very  disagreeable 
to  quarrel  with  your  relations,  and  get  on  unpleasant 
terms  with  them." 

"  Well,  /  shall  speak  to  her,  Eva,  pretty  decidedly,  if 
you  don't." 

"  Oh,  do  n't,  do  n't,  Harry !  She  'd  never  forgive 
you.  No.  Let  me  manage  her.  I  have  been  managing 
her  all  day  to  keep  the  peace,  to  keep  her  satisfied  and 
pleased;  to  let  her  advise  me  to  her  heart's  content, 
about  things  where  I  can  take  advice.  Aunt  Maria  is 
a  capital  judge  of  linens  and  cottons,  and  all  sorts  of 
household  stuffs,  and  can  tell  to  a  certainty  just  how 
much  of  a  thing  you  'd  want,  and  the  price  you  ought 
to  pay,  and  the  exact  place  to  get  it;  and  I  have  been 
contriving  to  get  her  opinion  on  a  dozen  points  where 
I  mean  to  take  it;  and  I  think  she  has  left,  on  the 
whole,  highly  satisfied  with  her  visit,  though  in  the  main 
I  didn't  give  in  to  her  a  bit  about  our  plans." 

"  Then  why  so  tragic  and  tired-looking  ?  " 

"Oh,  well,  after  all,  when  Aunt  Maria  talks,  she  says 
a  great  many  things  that  have  such  a  degree  of  sense 
in  them  that  it  worries  me.  Now,  there  's  a  good  deal 
of  sense  in  what  she  said  about  trusting  too  much  to 
servants,  and  being  too  indulgent.  I  know  mamma's 
girls  used  to  get  spoiled  so  that  they  would  be  perfect 
tyrants.  And  yet  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  like  Aunt 
Maria's  hard,  ungracious  way  of  living  with  servants, 
as  if  they  were  machines. 

"  Ah,  well,  Eva,  it 's  always  so.  Hard,  worldly  people 
always  have  a  good  deal  of  what  looks  like  practical 
sense  on  their  side,  and  kindness  and  unselfishness  cer 
tainly  have  their  weak  points;  there  's  no  doubt  of  that. 
The  Sermon  on  the  Mount  is  open  to  a  great  deal  of 
good  hard  worldly  criticism,  and  so  is  every  attempt 


THE  SETTLING  OF  THE   WATERS.  75 

to  live  up  to  it  practically;  but,  never  mind.  We  all 
know  that  the  generous  way  is  the  strong  way,  and  the 
best  way,  in  the  long  run." 

"And  then  you  know,  Harry,   I  haven't  the  least 

talent  for  being  hard  and  sharp,"  said  Eva,  "and  so  I 

may  as  well  take  the  advantages  of  my  sort  of  nature." 

"Certainly  you   may;  people   never  succeed   out   of 

their  own  line." 

"  Then  there  's  another  trouble.  I  'm  afraid  Aunt  Maria 
is  going  to  interfere  with  Alice,  as  she  tried  to  do  with 
me.  She  said  that  everybody  was  talking  about  her 
intimacy  with  Jim,  and  that  if  /  didn  't  speak  to  Alice 
she  must." 

"Confound  that  woman,"  said  Harry ;  "  she  's  an  un 
mitigated  old  fool !  She  's  as  bad  as  a  runaway  steam 
engine;  somebody  ought  to  seize  and  lock  her  up." 

"  Come,  sir,  keep  a  civil  tongue  about  my  relations," 
said  Eva,  laughing. 

"Well,  I  must  let  off  a  little  to  you,  just  to  lower 
steam  to  the  limits  of  Christian  moderation." 

"Alice  isn't  as  fond  of  Aunt  Maria  as  I  am,  and  has 
a  high  spirit  of  her  own,  and  I  'm  afraid  it  will  make  a 
terrible  scene  if  Aunt  Maria  attacks  her,  so  I  suppose  I 
must  talk  to  her  myself;  but  what  do  you  think  of  Jim, 
Harry  ?  Is  there  anything  in  it,  on  his  part  ?  " 

"How  can  I  say?  you  know  just  as  much  as  I  do  and 
no  more,  and  you  are  a  better  judge  of  human  nature 
than  I  am." 

"Well,  would  you  like  it  to  have  Alice  take  Jim — 
supposing  there  were  anything." 

"  Why,  yes,  very  well,  if  she  wants  him." 

"But  Jim  is  such  a  volatile  creature — would  you 
want  to  trust  him  ?  " 

"  He  is  constant  in  his  affections,  which  is  the  main 
thing.  I  'm  sure  his  conduct  when  your  father  failed 


76  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

showed  that;  and  a  sensible,  dignified  woman  like  Alice 
might  make  a  man  of  him." 

"  It 's  odd,"  said  Eva,  "  that  Alice,  who  is  so  prudent, 
and  has  such  a  high  sense  of  propriety,  seems  so  very 
indulgent  to  Jim.  None  of  his  escapades  seem  to  offend 
her." 

"  It 's  the  doctrine  of  counterparts,"  said  Harry;  "the 
steady  sensible  nature  admires  the  brilliancy  and  variety 
of  the  volatile  one." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Eva,  "  I  can  't  conceive  of  Jim  's 
saying  anything  in  serious  earnest.  The  very  idea  of  his 
being  sentimental  seems  funny — and  how  can  anybody 
be  in  love  without  being  sentimental  ?  " 

"There  are  diversities  of  operation,"  said  Harry. 
**  Jim  must  make  love  in  his  own  way,  and  it  will  prob 
ably  be  an  original  one." 

"  But,  really  now,  do  you  know,"  persisted  Eva,  "  I 
think  Alice  might  be  mated  with  a  man  of  much  higher 
class  than  Jim.  He  is  amiable,  and  bright,  and  funny, 
and  agreeable.  Yet  I  don't  deny  but  Alice  might  do 
better." 

"  So  she  might,  but  the  perversity  of  fate  is  that  the 
superior  man  isn't  around  and  Jim  zV/and,  ten  to  one, 
if  the  superior  man  were  in  the  field,  Alice  would  be  per 
verse  enough  to  choose  Jim.  And,  after  all,  you  must 
confess,  give  Jim  Fellows  a  fortune  ot  a  million  or  two, 
a  place  in  Newport,  and  another  on  the  North  River, 
and  even  you  would  call  it  a  brilliant  match,  and  think 
it  a  fortunate  thing  for  Alice." 

"Oh,  dear  me,  Harry,  that's  the  truth,  to  be  sure. 
Am  I  so  worldly  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  'ideal  heroes  are  not  plentiful,  and  there 
are  few  gems  that  don't  need  rich  setting.  The  first 
questions  as  to  a  man  are,  is  he  safe,  has  he  no  bad  habits, 
is  he  kind  and  affectionate  in  his  disposition  ar.d  capable 


THE  SETTLING  OF  THE   WATERS.  77 

of  constant  affection  ?  and,  secondly,  does  the  woman  feel 
that  sort  of  love  that  makes  her  prefer  him  even  to  men 
that  are  quite  superioi  ?  Now,  whether  Alice  feels  in 
that  way  toward  Jim  is  what  remains  to  be  seen.  I'm 
sure  I  can't  tell.  Neither  can  I  tell  whether  Jim  has  any 
serious  intentions  in  regard  to  her.  If  they  were  only  let 
alone,  and  not  watched  and  interfered  with,  I  Ve  no  doubt 
the  thing  would  adjust  itself  in  the  natural  course  of 
things. 

"But  see  here,  I  must  be  going  to  my  club,  and, 
now  I  think  of  it,  I  Ve  brought  some  Paris  letters  from 
the  girls  for  you, to  pass  the  evening  with." 

"  You  have  ?  Letters  from  Ida  and  Caroline  ?  You 
naughty  creature,  why  did  n't  you  give  them  to  me  be 
fore?" 

"  Well,  your  grave  face  when  I  first  came  in  put  every 
thing  else  out  of  my  head ;  and  then  came  on  all  this 
talk :  but  it 's  just  as  well,  you  '11  have  them  to  read  while 
I  'm  gone." 

"  Do  n't  stay  late,  Harry." 

"  No ;  you  may  be  sure  I  Ve  no  temptation.  I  'd 
much  rather  be  here  with  you  watching  our  own  back 
log.  But  then  I  shall  see  several  fellows  about  articles 
for  the  magazine,  and  get  all  the  late  news,  and,  in  short, 
take  an  observation  of  our  latitude  and  longitude;  so, 
au  revoir  !  " 


CHAPTER    VII. 

LETTERS   AND    AIR-CASTLES. 

AFTER  Harry  went  out,  Eva  arranged  the  fire, 
dropped  the  curtains  over  the  window,  drew  up  an 
easy  chair  into  a  warm  corner  under  the  gas-light,  and 
began  looking  over  the  outside  of  her  Parisian  letters  with 
that  sort  of  luxurious  enjoyment  of  delay  with  which  one 
examines  the  post-marks  and  direction  of  letters  that 
are  valued  as  a  great  acquisition.  There  was  one  from 
her  sister  Ida  and  one  from  Harry's  cousin  Caroline. 
Ida's  was  opened  first.  It  was  dated  from  a  boarding- 
house  in  the  Rue  de  Clichy,  giving  a  sort  of  journalised 
view  of  their  studies,  their  medical  instructors,  their 
walks  and  duties  in  the  hospital,  all  told  with  an  evident 
and  vigorous  sense  of  enjoyment.  Eva  felt  throughout 
what  a  strong,  cheerful,  self-sustained  being  her  sister 
was,  and  how  fit  it  was  that  a  person  so  sufficient  to 
herself,  so  equable,  so  healthfully  balanced  and  poised 
in  all  her  mental  and  physical  conformation,  should  have 
undertaken  the  pioneer  work  of  opening  a  new  profession 
for  women.  "  I  never  could  do  as  she  does,  in  the 
world,"  was  her  mental  comment,  "but  I  am  thankful 
that  she  can."  And  then  she  cut  the  envelope  of  Caro 
line's  letter. 

To  a  certain  extent  there  were  the  same  details  in  it 
— Caroline  was  evidently  associated  in  the  same  studies, 
the  same  plans,  but  there  was  missing  in  the  letter  the 
professional  enthusiasm,  the  firmness,  the  self-poise,  and 
calm  clearness.  There  were  more  bursts  of  feeling  on 


LETTERS  AND  AIR-CASTLES.  79 

the  pictures  in  the  Louvre  than  on  scientific  discoveries ; 
more  sensibility  to  the  various  aesthetic  wonders  which 
Paris  opens  to  an  uninitiated  guest  than  to  the  treasures 
of  anatomy  and  surgery.  With  the  letter  were  sent  two  or 
three  poems,  contributions  to  the  Magazine — poems  full 
of  color  and  life,  of  a  subdued  fire,  but  with  that  under 
tone  of  sadness  which  is  so  common  in  all  female  poets. 
A  portion  of  the  letter  may  explain  this : 

"You  were  right,  my  dear  Eva,  in  saying,  in  our  last 
interview,  that  it  did  not  seem  to  you  that  I  had  the  kind 
of  character  that  was  adapted  to  the  profession  I  have 
chosen.  I  don't  think  I  have.  I  am  more  certain  of  it 
from  comparing  myself  from  day  to  day  with  Ida,  who 
certainly  is  born  and  made  for  it,  if  ever  a  woman  was. 
My  choice  of  it  has  been  simply  and  only  for  the  reason 
that  I  must  choose  something  as  a  means  of  self-support, 
and  more  than  that,  as  a  refuge  from  morbid  distresses 
of  mind  which  made  the  still  monotony  of  my  New  En 
gland  country  life  intolerable  to  me.  This  course  pre 
sented  itself  to  me  as  something  feasible.  I  thought  it, 
too,  a  good  and  worthy  career — one  in  which  one  might 
do  one's  share  of  good  for  the  world.  But,  Eva,  I  can 
feel  that  there  is  one  essential  difference  between  Ida  and 
myself:  she  is  peculiarly  self-sustained  and  sufficient  to 
herself,  and  I  am  just  the  reverse.  I  am  full  of  vague 
unrest ;  I  am  chased  by  seasons  of  high  excitement,  al 
ternating  with  deadly  languor.  Ida  has  hard  work  to 
know  what  to  do  with  me.  You  were  right  in  supposing, 
as  you  intimate  in  your  letter,  that  a  certain  common 
friend  has  something  to  do  with  this  unrest,  but  you  can 
not,  unless  you  know  my  whole  history,  know  how  much. 
There  was  a  time  when  he  and  I  were  all  the  world  to 
each  other — when  shall  I  ever  forget  that  time !  I  was 
but  seventeen  ;  a  young  girl,  so  ignorant  of  life  !  I  never 
had  seen  one  like  him ;  he  was  a  whole  new  revelation  to 


80  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

me ;  he  woke  up  everything  there  was  in  me,  never  to  go 
to  sleep  again ;  and  then  to  think  of  having  all  this  tide 
and  current  of  feeling  checked — frozen.  My  father  over 
whelmed  him  with  accusations ;  every  baseness  was  laid 
to  his  charge.  I  was  woman  enough  to  have  stood  for 
him  against  the  world  if  he  had  come  to  me.  I  would 
have  left  all  and  gone  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  with  him 
if  he  had  asked  me,  but  he  did  not.  There  was  only 
one  farewell,  self-accusing  letter,  and  even  that  fell  into 
my  father's  hands  and  never  came  to  me  till  after  his 
death.  For  years  I  thought  myself  wantonly  trifled  with 
by  a  man  of  whose  attentions  I  ought  to  be  ashamed.  I 
was  indignant  at  myself  for  the  love  that  might  have  been 
my  glory,  for  it  is  my  solemn  belief  that  if  we  had  been 
let  alone  he  would  have  been  saved  all  those  wretched 
falls,  those  blind  struggles  that  have  marred  a  life  whose 
purpose  is  yet  so  noble. 

"  When  the  fates  brought  us  together  again  in  New 
York,  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  whatever  may  have  been  the 
proud,  morbid  conscientiousness  that  dictated  his  long 
silence,  he  loved  me  still ; — a  woman  knows  that  by  an 
unmistakable  instinct.  She  can  feel  the  reality  through 
all  disguises.  /  know  that  man  loves  me,  and  yet  he  does 
not  now  in  word  or  deed  make  the  least  profession  be 
yond  the  boundaries  of  friendship.  He  is  my  friend; 
with  entire  devotion  he  is  willing  to  spend  and  be  spent 
for  me — but  he  will  accept  nothing  from  me.  I,  who 
would  give  my  life  to  him  willingly — I  must  do  nothing 
for  him ! 

"  Well,  it 's  no  use  writing.  You  see  now  that  I  am  a 
very  unworthy  disciple  of  your  sister.  She  is  so  calm 
and  philosophical  that  I  cannot  tell  her  all  this ;  but  you, 
dear  little  Eva,  you  know  the  heart  of  woman,  and  you 
have  a  magic  key  which  unlocks  everybody's  heart  in 
confidence  to  you.  I  seem  to  see  you,  in  fancy,  with 


LETTERS  AND  AIR-CASTLES.  81 

good  Cousin  Harry,  sitting  cosily  in  your  chimney- 
corner  ;  your  ivies  and  nasturtiums  growing  round  your 
sunny  windows,  and  an  everlasting  summer  in  your 
pretty  parlors,  while  the  December  winds  whistle  with 
out.  Such  a  life  as  you  two  lead,  such  a  home  as  your 
home,  is  worth  a  thousand  *  careers  '  that  dazzle  ambition. 
Send  us  more  letters,  journals,  of  all  your  pretty,  lovely 
home  life,  and  let  me  warm  myself  in  the  glow  of  your 
fireside.  Your  Cousin,  CARRY." 

Eva  finished  this  letter,  and  then  folding  it  up  sat 
with  it  in  her  lap,  gazing  into  the  fire,  and  pondering  its 
contents.  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  she  was  revolving 
in  her  young,  busy  brain  a  scheme  for  restoring  Caroline 
to  her  lover,  and  setting  them  up  comfortably  at  house 
keeping  on  a  contiguous  street,  where  she  had  seen  a 
house  to  let.  In  five  minutes  she  had  gone  through  the 
whole  programme — seen  the  bride  at  the  altar,  engaged 
the  house,  bought  the  furniture,  and  had  before  her  a 
vision  of  parlors,  of  snuggeries  and  cosy  nooks,  where 
Caroline  was  to  preside,  and  where  Bolton  was  to  lounge 
at  his  ease,  while  she  and  Caroline  compared  house 
keeping  accounts.  Happy  young  wives  develop  an  apti 
tude  for  match-making  as  naturally  as  flowers  spring  in  a 
meadow,  and  Eva  was  losing  herself  in  this  vision  of 
Alnaschar,  when  a  loud,  imperative,  sharp  bark  of  a  dog 
at  the  front  door  of  the  house  called  her  back  to  life  and 
the  world. 

Now  there  are  as  many  varieties  to  dog-barks  as  to 
man-talks.  There"  is  the  common  bow-wow,  which 
means  nothing,  only  that  it  is  a  dog  speaking;  there  is 
the  tumultuous  angry  bark,  which  means  attack;  the 
conversational  bark,  which,  of  a  moonlight  night,  means 
gossip ;  and  the  imperative  staccato  bark  which  means 
immediate  business.  The  bark  at  the  front  door  was  of 


82  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

this  kind :  it  was  loud  and  sharp,  and  with  a  sort  of  in 
dignant  imperativeness  about  it,  as  of  one  accustomed 
to  be  attended  to  immediately. 

Eva  flew  to  the  front  door  and  opened  it,  and  there 
sat  Jack,  the  spoiled  darling  of  Miss  Dorcas  Vander- 
heyden  and  her  sister,  over  the  way. 

"  Why,  Jacky !  where  did  you  come  from  ?  "  said  Eva. 
Jacky  sat  up  on  his  haunches  and  waved  his  forepaws  in 
a  vigorous  manner,  as  was  his  way  when  he  desired  to 
be  specially  ingratiating. 

Eva  seized  him  in  her  arms  and  carried  him  into  the 
parlor,  thinking  that  as  he  had  accidentally  been  shut 
out  for  the  night  she  would  domesticate  him  for  a  while, 
and  return  him  to  his  owners  on  the  morrow.  So  she 
placed  him  on  the  ottoman  in  the  corner  and  attempted 
to  caress  him,  but  evidently  that  was  not  the  purpose  he 
had  in  view.  He  sprang  down,  ran  to  the  door  and 
snuffed,  and  to  the  front  windows  and  barked  imperi 
ously. 

"  Why,  Jack,  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

He  sprang  into  a-  chair  and  barked  out  at  the  Van- 
derheyden  house. 

Eva  looked  at  the  mantel  clock — it  wanted  a  few 
minutes  of  ten — without,  it  was  a  bright  moonlight  night. 

"I'll  run  across  with  him,  and  see  what  it  is,"  she 
said.  She  was  young  enough  to  enjoy  something  like 
an  adventure.  She  opened  the  front  door  and  Jack 
rushed  out,  and  then  stopped  to  see  if  she  would  follow ; 
as  she  stood  a  moment  he  laid  hold  on  the  skirt  of  her 
dress,  as  if  to  pull  her  along. 

"Well,  Jacky,  I  '11  go,"  said  Eva.  Thereat  the  crea 
ture  bounded  across  the  street  and  up  the  steps  of  the 
opposite  house,  where  he  stood  waiting.  She  went  up 
and  rang  the  door-bell,  which  appeared  to  be  what  he 
wanted,  as  he  sat  down  quite  contented  on  the  doorstep. 


LETTERS  AND  AIR-CASTLES.  83 

Nobody  came.  Eva  looked  up  and  down  the  street. 
"  Jacky,  we  shall  have  to  go  back,  they  are  all  asleep," 
she  said.  But  Jacky  barked  contradiction,  sprang  near 
er  to  the  door,  and  insisted  on  being  let  in. 

"  Well,  if  you  say  so,  Jacky,  I  must  ring  again,"  she 
said,  and  with  that  she  pulled  the  door-bell  louder,  and 
Jack  barked  with  all  his  might,  and  the  two  succeeded 
after  a  few  moments  in  causing  a  perceptible  stir  within. 

Slowly  the  door  unclosed,  and  a  vision  of  Miss  Dor 
cas  in  an  old-fashioned  broad-frilled  night-cap  peeped 
out.  She  was  attired  in  a  black  water-proof  cloak, 
donned  hastily  over  her  night  gear. 

"  Oh,  Jack,  you  naughty  boy !  "  she  exclaimed,  stoop 
ing  eagerly  to  the  prodigal,  who  sprung  tumultuously 
into  her  arms  and  began  licking  her  face. 

"  I  'm  so  much  obliged  to  you,  Mrs.  Henderson,"  she 
said  to  Eva.  "  We  went  down  in  the  omnibus  this  after 
noon,  and  we  suddenly  missed  him,  the  naughty  fellow," 
she  said,  endeavoring  to  throw  severity  into  her  tones. 

Eva  related  Jack's  ruse. 

"  Did  you  ever !  "  said  Miss  Dorcas ;  "  the  creature 
knew  that  we  slept  in  the  back  of  the  house,  and  he  got 
you  to  ring  our  door-bell.  Jacky,  what  a  naughty  fel 
low  you  are !  " 

Mrs.  Betsey  now  appeared  on  the  staircase  in  an 
equal  state  of  dishabille : 

"  Oh  dear,  Mrs.  Henderson,  we  are  so  shocked !  " 

"  Dear  me,  never  speak  of  it.  I  think  it  was  a  cun 
ning  trick  of  Jack.  He  knew  you  were  gone  to  bed,  and 
saw  I  was  up  and  so  got  me  to  ring  his  door-bell  for 
him.  I  do  n't  doubt  he  rode  up  town  in  the  omnibus. 
Well,  good-night ! " 

And  Eva  closed  the  door  and  flew  back  to  her  own 
little  nest  just  in  time  to  let  in  Harry. 

The  first  few  moments  after  they  were  fairly  by  the 


84  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

fireside  were  devoted  to  a  recital  of  the  adventure,  with 
dramatic  representations  of  Jack  and  his  mistresses. 

"  It 's  a  capital  move  on  Jack's  part.  It  got  me  into 
the  very  interior  of  the  fortress.  Only  think  of  seeing 
them  in  their  night-caps !  That  is  carrying  all  the  out 
works  of  ceremony  at  a  move." 

"To  say  nothing  of  their  eternal  gratitude,"  said 
Harry. 

"  Oh,  that  of  course.  They  were  ready  to  weep  on 
my  neck  with  joy  that  I  had  brought  the  dear  little 
plague  back  to  them,  and  I  do  n't  doubt  are  rejoicing 
over  him  at  this  moment.  But,  oh,  Harry,  you  must 
hear  the  girls'  Paris  letters." 

"Are  they  very  long?  "  said  Harry. 

"  Fie  now,  Harry ;  you  ought  to  be  interested  in  the 
girls." 

"  Why,  of  course  I  am,"  said  Harry,  pulling  out  his 
watch,  "  only — what  time  is  it  ?  " 

"  Only  half-past  ten — not  a  bit  late,"  said  Eva.  As 
she  began  to  read  Ida's  letter,  Harry  settled  back  in  the 
embrace  of  a  luxurious  chair,  with  his  feet  stretched  out 
towards  the  fire,  and  gradually  the  details  of  Paris  life 
mingled  pleasingly  with  a  dream — a  fact  of  which  Eva 
was  made  aware  as  she  asked  him  suddenly  what  he 
thought  of  Ida's  views  on  a  certain  point. 

"  Now,  Harry — you  have  n't  been  asleep?" 

"Just  a  moment.  The  very  least  in  the  world," 
said  Harry,  looking  anxiously  alert  and  sitting  up  very 
straight. 

Then  Eva  read  Caroline's  letter. 

"  Now,  isn't  it  too  bad  ?  "  she  said,  with  eagerness,  as 
she  finished. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Harry,  very  gravely.  "But,  Eva 
dear,  it 's  one  of  those  things  that  you  and  I  can  do 
nothing  to  help — it  is 


LE  TTERS  AND  AIR- CA  STLES.  85 

"What'sananke?" 

"  The  name  the  old  Greeks  gave  to  that  perverse 
Something  that  brought  ruin  and  misery  in  spite  of  and 
out  of  the  best  human  efforts." 

"But  I  want  to  bring  these  two  together." 

"  Be  careful  how  you  try,  darling.  Who  knows  what 
the  results  may  be  ?  It 's  a  subject  Bolton  never  speaks 
of,  where  he  has  his  own  purposes  and  conclusions ;  and 
it 's  the  best  thing  for  Caroline  to  be  where  she  has  as 
many  allurements  and  distractions  as  she  has  in  Paris, 
and  such  a  wise,  calm,  strong  friend  as  your  sister. 

"And  now,  dear,  mayn't  I  go  to  bed?"  he  added, 
with  pathos,  "You  Ve  no  idea,  dear,  how  sleepy  I  am." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  you  poor  boy,"  said  Eva,  bustling 
about  and  putting  up  the  chairs  and  books  preparatory 
to  leaving  the  parlor. 

*  You  see,"  she  said,  going  up  stairs,  "he  was  so  im 
perious  that  I  really  had  to  go  with  him." 

"He!     Who?" 

"Why,  Jack,  to  be  sure,  he  did  all  but  speak,"  said 
Eva,  brush  in  hand,  and  letting  down  her  curls  before 
the  glass.  "  You  see  I  was  in  a  reverie  over  those  letters 
when  the  barking  roused  me — I  don't  think  you  ever 
heard  such  a  barking ;  and  when  I  got  him  in,  he  wouldn't 
be  contented — kept  insisting  on  my  going  over  with  him 
— was  n't  it  strange  ? 

Harry,  by  this  time  composed  for  the  night  and  half 
asleep,  said  it  was. 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  aroused  by  Eva's  saying, 
suddenly, 

"  Harry,  I  really  think  I  ought  to  bring  them  together. 
Now,  could  n't  I  do  something?  " 

"  With  Jack?  "  said  Harry,  drowsily. 

"  Jack  ! — oh,  you  sleepy -head !  Well,  never  mind. 
Good  night." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE    VANDERHEYDEN    FORTRESS   TAKEN. 


!  'H  tel1  y°u  wnat  J  'm  g°ing  to  d° 

this  morning,"  said  Eva,  with  the  air  of  a  little 
general,  as  she  poured  his  morning  coffee. 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  replied  he,  in  the 
proper  tone  of  inquiry. 

"  Well,  I  'm  going  to  take  the  old  fortress  over  the 
way  by  storm,  this  very  morning.  I  'm  going  to  rush 
through  the  breach  that  Jack  has  opened  into  the  very 
interior  and  see  what  there  is  there.  I  'm  perfectly  dy 
ing  to  get  the  run  of  that  funny  old  house  ;  why,  Harry, 
it  's  just  like  a  novel,  and  I  should  n't  wonder  if  I  could 
get  enough  out  of  it  for  you  to  make  an  article  of." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  ;  you  enter  into  the  spirit  of  arti 
cle-hunting  like  one  to  the  manner  born." 

"  That  I  do  ;  I  'm  always  keeping  my  eyes  open  when 
I  go  about  New  York  for  bits  and  hints  that  you  can 
work  up,  and  I  'm  sure  you  ought  to  do  something  with 
this  old  Vanderheyden  house.  I  know  there  must  be 
ghosts  in  it;  I  'm  perfectly  certain." 

"But  you  would  n't  meet  them  in  a  morning  call," 
said  Harry,  "  that  's  contrary  to  all  ghostly  etiquette." 

"  Never  mind,  I  '11  get  track  of  them.  I  '11  become 
intimate  with  old  Miss  Dorcas  and  get  her  to  relate  her 
history,  and  if  there  is  a  ghost-chamber  I  '11  be*  into  it." 

"Well,  success  to  you,"  said  Harry;  "but  to  me  it 
looks  like  a  formidable  undertaking.  Those  old  ladies 
are  so  padded  and  wadded  in  buckram." 

"  Oh,  pshaw  !  there  's  just  what  Jack  has  done  for  me, 


THE  VANDERHEYDEN  FORTRESS  TAKEN.      87 

he  has  made  a  breach  in  the  padding  and  buckram. 
Only  think  of  my  seeing  them  at  midnight  in  their  night 
caps  !  And  such  funny  night-caps  !  Why,  it 's  an  occa 
sion  long  to  be  remembered,  and  I  would  be  willing  to 
wager  anything  they  are  talking  it  over  at  this  minute ; 
and,  of  course,  you  see,  it 's  extremely  proper  and  quite 
a  part  of  the  play  that  I  should  come  in  this  morning  to 
inquire  after  the  wanderer,  and  to  hope  they  did  n't  catch 
cold,  and  to  talk  over  the  matter  generally.  Now,  I  like 
that  old  Miss  Dorcas ;  there  seems  to  me  to  be  an  im 
mense  amount  of  character  behind  all  her  starch  and 
stiffness,  and  I  think  she  's  quite  worth  knowing.  She  '11 
be  an  acquisition  if  one  can  only  get  at  her." 

"  Well,  as  I  said,  success  and  prosperity  go  with  you  !" 
said  Harry,  as  he  rose  and  gathered  his  papers  to  go  to 
his  morning  work. 

"I  '11  go  right  out  with  you,"  said  Eva,  and  she 
snatched  from  the  hat-tree  a  shawl  and  a  little  morsel  of 
white,  fleecy  worsted,  which  the  initiated  surname  "a 
cloud,"  and  tied  it  over  her  head.  "  I  'm  going  right  in 
upon  them  now,"  she  said. 

It  was  a  brisk,  frosty  morning,  and  she  went  out  with 
Harry  and  darted  across  from  the  door.  He  saw  her  in 
the  distance,  as  he  went  down  the  street,  laughing  and 
kissing  her  hand  to  him  on  the  door-step  of  the  Vander- 
heyden  house. 

Just  then  the  sound  of  the  door-bell — unheard  of  in 
that  hour  in  the  morning — caused  an  excitement  in  the 
back  breakfast-parlor,  where  Miss  Dorcas  and  Mrs.  Bet 
sey  were  at  a  late  breakfast,  with  old  Dinah  standing 
behind  Miss  Dorcas'  chair  to  get  her  morning  orders, 
giggling  and  disputing  them  inch  by  inch,  as  was  her 
ordinary  wont. 

The  old  door-bell  had  a  rustling,  harsh,  rusty  sound, 
as  if  cross  with  a  chronic  rheumatism  of  disuse. 


88  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"Who  under  the  sun!"  said  Miss  Dorcas.  "Jack,  be 
still!" 

But  Jack  wouldn't  be  still,  but  ran  and  snuffed  at 
the  door,  and  barked  as  if  he  smelt  a  legion  of  burglars. 

Eva  heard,  within  the  house,  the  dining-room  door 
open,  and  then  Jack's  barking  came  like  a  fire  of  artillery 
at  the  crack  of  the  front  door,  where  she  was  standing. 
It  was  slowly  opened,  and  old  Dinah's  giggling  coun 
tenance  appeared.  "Laws  bless  your  soul,  Mis'  Hen 
derson,"  she  said,  flinging  the  door  wide  open,  "  is  that 
you  ?  Jack,  be  still,  sir!" 

But  Eva  had  caught  Jack  up  in  her  arms,  and  walked 
with  him  to  the  door  of  the  breakfast  room. 

"Do  pray  excuse  me,"  she  said,  "but  I  thought  I'd 
just  run  over  and  see  that  you  hadn't  taken  any  cold." 

The  scene  within  was  not  uninviting.  There  was  a 
cheerful  wood  fire  burning  on  the  hearth  behind  a  pair 
of  gigantic  old-fashioned  brass  fire-irons.  The  little 
breakfast-table,  with  its  bright  old  silver  and  India 
china,  was  drawn  comfortably  up  in  front.  Miss  Dorcas 
had  her  chair  on  one  side,  and  Miss  Betsey  on  the  other, 
and  between  them  there  was  a  chair  drawn  up  for  Jack, 
where  he  had  been  sitting  at  the  time  the  door-bell 
rang. 

"  We  are  ashamed  of  our  late  hours,"  said  Miss  Dor 
cas,  when  she  had  made  Eva  sit  down  in  an  old-fash 
ioned  claw-footed  arm-chair  in  the  warmest  corner ;  "  we 
don't  usually  breakfast  so  late,  but,  the  fact  is,  Betsey 
was  quite  done  up  by  the  adventure  last  night." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Eva,  "I  had  better  have  tried  keep 
ing  Jack  till  morning." 

"Oh  no,  indeed,  Mrs.  Henderson,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey, 
with  energy;  "I  know  it's  silly,  but  I  shouldn't  have 
slept  a  wink  all  night  if  Jack  had  n't  come  home.  You 
know  he  sleeps  with  me,"  she  added. 


THE  VANDERHEYDEN  FORTRESS  TAKEN.      89 

Eva  did  not  know  it  before,  but  she  said  "  Yes  "  all 
the  same,  and  the  good  lady  rushed  on : 

"Yes;  Dorcas  thinks  it's  rather  silly,  but  I  do  let 
Jack  sleep  on  the  foot  of  my  bed.  I  spread  his  blanket 
for  him  every  night,  and  I  always  wash  his  feet  and  wipe 
them  clean  before  he  goes  to  bed,  and  when  you  brought 
him  back  you  really  ought  to  have  seen  him  run  right  up 
stairs  to  where  I  keep  his  bowl  and  towel ;  and  he  stood 
there,  just  as  sensible,  waiting  for  me  to  come  and  wash 
him.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  how  dirty  he  was  !  I 
can't  think  where  ever  that  dog  gets  his  paws  so 
greasy." 

"'Cause  he  will  eat  out  o'  swill-pails!"  interposed 
Dinah,  with  a  chuckle.  "Greatest  dog  after  swill-pails 
I  ever  see.  That's  what  he's  off  after." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  why.  It's  very  bad  of  him 
when  we  always  feed  him  and  take  such  pains  with 
him,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  in  accents  of  lamentation. 

"Dogs  is  allers  jest  so,"  said  Dinah;  "they's  arter 
nastiness  and  carron.  You  can 't  make  a  Christian  out 
o'  a  dog,  no  matter  what  you  do." 

Old  Dinah  was  the  very  impersonation  of  that  coarse, 
hard  literalness  which  forces  actual  unpalatable  facts 
upon  unwilling  ears.  There  was  no  disputing  that  she 
spoke  most  melancholy  truths,  that  even  the  most  in 
fatuated  dog-lovers  could  not  always  shut  their  eyes  to. 
But  Mrs.  Betsey  chose  wholly  to  ignore  her  facts  and 
treat  her  communication  as  if  it  had  no  existence,  so  she 
turned  her  back  to  Dinah  and  went  on. 

"I  don't  know  what  makes  Jack  have  these  turns  of 
running  away.  Sometimes  I  think  it's  our  system  of 
dieting  him.  Perhaps  it  may  be  because  we  don't  allow 
him  all  the  meat  he  wants ;  but  then  they  say  if  you  do 
give  these  pet  dogs  meat  they  become  so  gross  that  it  is 
quite  shocking." 


90  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Miss  Dorcas  rapped  her  snuff-box,  sat  back  in  her 
chair,  and  took  snuff  with  an  air  of  antique  dignity  that 
seemed  to  call  heaven  and  earth  to  witness  that  she  only 
tolerated  such  fooleries  on  account  of  her  sister,  and  not 
at  all  in  the  way  of  personal  approbation. 

The  nurture  and  admonition  of  Jack  was  the  point 
where  the  two  sisters  had  a  chronic  controversy,  Miss 
Dorcas  inclining  to  the  side  of  strict  discipline  and  vig 
orous  repression. 

In  fact,  Miss  Dorcas  soothed  her  violated  notions  of 
dignity  and  propriety  by  always  speaking  of  Jack  as 
"Betsey's  dog" — he  was  one  of  the  permitted  toys  and 
amusements  of  Betsey's  more  juvenile  years;  but  she 
felt  called  upon  to  keep  some  limits  of  discipline  to  pre 
vent  Jack's  paw  from  ruling  too  absolutely  in  the  family 
councils. 

"You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  going  on  with  her  rem 
iniscences  of  yesterday,  "we  had  taken  Jack  down  town 
with  us  because  we  wanted  to  get  his  photographs;  we  'd 
had  him  taken  last  week,  and  they  were  not  ready  till 
yesterday." 

"Dear  me,  do  show  them  to  me,"  said  Eva,  entering 
cheerfully  into  the  humor  of  the  thing;  and  Mrs.  Betsey 
trotted  up  stairs  to  get  them. 

"You  see  how  very  absurd  we  are,"  said  Miss  Dorcas; 
"but  the  fact  is,  Mrs.  Henderson,  Betsey  has  had  her 
troubles,  poor  child,  and  I  'm  glad  to  have  her  have  any 
thing  that  can  be  any  sort  of  a  comfort  to  her." 

Betsey  came  back  with  her  photographs,  which  she 
exhibited  with  the  most  artless  innocence. 

"You  see,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  "just  how  it  is.  If 
people  set  out  to  treat  a  dog  as  a  child,  they  have  to  take 
the  consequences.  That  dog  rules  this  whole  family, 
and  of  course  he  behaves  like  spoiled  children  generally. 
Here,  now,  this  morning;  Betsey  and  I  both  have  bad 


THE  VANDERHEYDEN  FORTRESS  TAKEN.      91 

colds  because  we  were  got  out  of  bed  last  night  with  that 
creature." 

Here  Jack,  seeming  to  understand  that  he  was  the 
subject-matter  of  some  criticism,  rose  up  suddenly  on  his 
haunches  before  Miss  Dorcas  and  waved  his  paws  in  a 
supplicatory  manner  at  her.  Jack  understood  this  to  be 
his  only  strong  point,  and  brought  it  out  as  a  trump  card 
on  all  occasions  when  he  felt  himself  to  be  out  of  favor. 
Miss  Dorcas  laughed,  xas  she  generally  did,  and  Jack 
seemed  delighted,  and  sprang  into  her  lap  and  offered  to 
kiss  her  with  the  most  brazen  assurance. 

"  Oh,  well,  Mrs.  Henderson,  I  suppose  you  see  that 
we  are  two  old  fools  about  that  dog,"  she  said.  "I 
do  n't  know  but  I  am  almost  as  silly  as  Betsey  is,  but  the 
fact  is  one  must  have  something •,  and  a  dog  is  not  so 
much  risk  as  a  boy,  after  all.  Yes,  Jack,"  she  said,  tap 
ping  his  shaggy  head  patronizingly,  "  after  all  you  're  no 
more  impudent  than  puppies  in  general." 

"  I  never  quarrel  with  anyone  for  loving  dogs,"  said 
Eva.  ll  For  my  part  I  think  no  family  is  complete  with 
out  one.  I  tell  Harry  we  must  *  set  up  '  our  dog  as  soon 
as  we  get  a  little  more  settled.  When  we  get  one,  we  '11 
compare  notes." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  "  I  always  comfort  myself 
with  thinking  that  dear  Sir  Walter,  with  all  his  genius, 
went  as  far  in  dog -petting  as  any  of  us.  You  remember 
Washington  Irving's  visit  to  Abbotsford  ?" 

Eva  did  not  remember  it,  and  Miss  Dorcas  said  she 
must  get  it  for  her  at  once ;  she  ought  to  read  it.  And  away 
she  went  to  look  it  up  in  the  book-case  in  the  next  room. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  mysteriously,  "though 
Dorcas  has  so  much  strength  of  mind,  she  is  to  the  full 
as  silly  about  Jack  as  I  am.  When  I  was  gone  to  New- 
burg,  if  you  '11  believe  me,  she  let  Jack  sleep  on  her  bed. 
Dinah  knows  it,  does  n't  she  ?" 


92  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Dinah  confirmed  this  fact  by  a  loud  explosing,  in 
which  there  was  a  singular  mixture  of  snort  and  giggle ; 
and  to  cover  her  paroxysm  she  seized  violently  on  the  re 
mains  of  the  breakfast  and  bore  them  out  into  the  kitchen, 
and  was  heard  giggling  and  gurgling  in  a  rill  of  laughter 
all  along  the  way. 

Mrs.  Betsey  began  gathering  up  and  arranging  the 
cups,  and  filling  a  lacquered  bowl  of  Japanese  fabric 
with  hot  water,  she  proceeded  to  wash  the  china  and 
silver. 

"  What  lovely  china,"  said  Eva,  with  the  air  of  a  con 
noisseur. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  "  this  china  has  been  in  the 
family  for  three  generations,  and  we  never  suffer  a  ser 
vant  to  touch  it." 

"  Please  let  me  help  you,"  said  Eva,  taking  up  the 
napkin  sociably,  "  I  do  so  love  old  china." 

And  pretty  soon  one  might  have  seen  a  gay  morning 
party — Mrs.  Betsey  washing,  Eva  wiping,  and  Miss  Dor 
cas  the  while  reading  scraps  out  of  Abbotsford  about 
Maida,  and  Finette,  and  Hamlet,  and  Camp,  and  Percy, 
and  others  of  Walter  Scott's  four-footed  friends.  The 
ice  of  ceremony  and  stiffness  was  not  only  broken  by 
this  bit  of  morning  domesticity,  but  floated  gaily  down 
stream  never  to  be  formed  again. 

You  may  go  further  into  the  hearts  of  your  neighbors 
by  one-half  hour  of  undressed  rehearsal  behind  the  scenes 
than  a  century  of  ceremonious  posing  before  the  foot 
lights. 

Real  people,  with  anything  like  heart  and  tastes  and 
emotions,  do  not  enjoy  being  shut  up  behind  barricades, 
and  conversing  with  their  neighbors  only  throu'gh  loop 
holes.  If  any  warm-hearted  adventurer  gets  in  at  the 
back  door  of  the  heart,  the  stiffest  and  most  formal  are 
often  the  most  thankful  for  the  deliverance. 


THE   VANDERHhYDEN  FORTRESS  TAKEN.       93 

The  advent  of  this  pretty  young  creature,  with  her  air 
of  joy  and  gaiety,  into  the  shadowed  and  mossy  pre 
cincts  of  the  old  Vanderheyden  house  was  an  event  to 
be  dated  from,  as  the  era  of  a  new  life.  She  was  to 
them  a  flower,  a  picture,  a  poem ;  and  a  thousand  dear 
remembrances  and  new  capabilities  stirred  in  the  with 
ered  old  hearts  to  meet  her. 

Her  sincere  artlessness  and  naif  curiosity,  her  gen 
uine  interest  in  the  old  time-worn  furniture,  relics  and 
belongings  of  the  house  gave  them  a  new  sense  of  pos 
session.  We  seem  to  acquire  our  things  over  again  when 
stimulated  by  the  admiration  of  a  new  spectator. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Eva,  as  she  put  down  a  tea-cup  she 
was  wiping,  "  what  a  pity  I  have  n't  some  nice  old  china 
to  begin  on !  but  all  my  things  are  spick  and  span  new ; 
I  do  n't  think  it 's  a  bit  interesting.  I  do  love  to  see 
things  that  look  as  if  they  had  a  history." 

"  Ah !  my  dear  child,  you  are  making  history  fast 
enough,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  with  that  kind  of  half  sigh 
with  which  people  at  eighty  look  down  on  the  aspirants 
of  twenty;  "don't  try  to  hurry  things." 

"  But  I  think  old  things  are  so  nice,"  said  Eva. 
"  They  get  so  many  associations.  Things  just  out  of 
Tiffany's  or  Collamore's  have  n't  associations — there 's  no 
poetry  in  them.  Now,  everything  in  your  house  has  its 
story.  It 's  just  like  the  old  villas  I  used  to  see  in  Italy 
where  the  fountains  were  all  mossy." 

"  We  are  mossy  enough,  dear  knows,"  said  Miss  Dor 
cas,  laughing,  "Betsey  and  I." 

"  I  'm  so  glad  I  Ve  got  acquainted  with  you,"  said 
Eva,  looking  up  with  clear,  honest  eyes  into  Miss  Dor 
cas's  face ;  "  it 's  so  lonesome  not  to  know  one's  neighbors, 
and  I  'm  an  inexperienced  beginner,  you  know.  There 
are  a  thousand  questions  I  might  ask,  where  your  expe 
rience  could  help  me." 


94  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"Well,  don't  hesitate,  dear  Mrs.  Henderson,"  said 
Mrs.  Betsey ;  "  do  use  us  if  you  can.  Dorcas  is  really 
quite  a  doctor,  and  if  you  should  be  ill  any  time,  do  n't 
fail  to  let  us  know.  We  never  have  a  doctor.  Dorcas 
always  knows  just  what  to  do.  You  ought  to  see  her 
herb  closet — there  's  a  little  of  everything  in  it;  and  she 
is  wonderful  for  strengthening-mixtures." 

And  so  Eva  was  taken  to  see  the  herbal,  and  thence, 
by  natural  progression,  through  the  chambers,  where  she 
admired  the  old  furniture.  Then  cabinets  were  unlocked, 
old  curiosities  brought  out,  snatches  and  bits  of  history 
followed,  and,  in  fact,  lunch  time  came  in  the  old  Van- 
derheyden  house  before  any  of  them  perceived  whither 
the  tide  of  social  enthusiasm  had  carried  them.  Eva 
stayed  to  lunch.  Such  a  thing  had  not  happened  for 
years  to  the  desolate  old  couple,  and  it  really  seemed  as 
if  the  roses  of  youth  and  joy,  the  flowers  of  years  past, 
all  bloomed  and  breathed  around  her,  and  it  was  late  in 
the  day  before  she  returned  to  her  own  home  to  look 
back  on  the  Vanderheyden  fortress  as  taken.  Two  stiff, 
ceremonious  strangers  had  become  two  warm-hearted, 
admiring  friends — a  fortress  locked  and  barred  by  con 
straint  had  become  an  open  door  of  friendship.  Was  it 
not  a  good  morning's  work  ? 


CHAPTER  IX. 

JIM    AND    ALICE. 

THE  recent  discussions  of  the  marriage  question, 
betokening  unrest  and  dissatisfaction  with  the  im 
mutable  claims  of  this  institution,  are  founded,  no  doubt, 
on  the  various  distresses  and  inconveniences  of  ill- 
assorted  marriages. 

In  times  when  the  human  being  was  little  developed, 
the  elements  of  agreement  and  disagreement  were  sim 
pler,  and  marriages  were  proportionately  more  tranquil. 
But  modern  civilized  man  has  a  thousand  points  of  pos 
sible  discord  in  an  immutable  near  relation  where  there 
was  one  in  the  primitive  ages. 

The  wail,  and  woe,  and  struggle  to  undo  marriage 
bonds,  in  our  day,  comes  from  this  dissonance  of  more 
developed  and  more  widely  varying  natures,  and  it  shows 
that  a  large  proportion  of  marriages  have  been  con 
tracted  without  any  advised  and  rational  effort  to  ascer 
tain  whether  there  was  a  reasonable  foundation  for  a  close 
and  life-long  intimacy. 

It  would  seem  as  if  the  arrangements  and  customs  of 
modern  society  did  everything  that  could  be  done  to  ren 
der  such  a  previous  knowledge  impossible. 

Good  sense  would  say  that  if  men  and  women  are  to 
single  each  other  out,  and  bind  themselves  by  a  solemn 
oath,  forsaking  all  others  to  cleave  to  each  other  as  long 
as  life  should  last,  there  ought  to  be,  before  taking  vows 
of  such  gravity,  the  very  best  opportunity  to  become 
minutely  acquainted  with  each  other's  dispositions,  and 
habits,  and  modes  of  thought  and  action.  It  would 


96  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

seem  to  be  the  dictate  of  reason  that  a  long  and  intimate 
friendship  ought  to  be  allowed,  in  which,  without  any 
bias  or  commitment,  young  people  might  have  full  op 
portunity  to  study  each  other's  character  and  disposition, 
being  under  no  obligation,  expressed  or  implied,  on  ac 
count  of  such  intimacy  to  commit  themselves  to  the 
irrevocable  union. 

Such  a  kind  of  friendship  is  the  instinctive  desire  of 
both  the  parties  that  make  up  society.  Both  young  men 
and  young  women,  as  we  observe,  would  greatly  enjoy  a 
more  intimate  and  friendly  intercourse,  if  the  very  fact 
of  that  initiatory  acquaintance  were  not  immediately 
seized  upon  by  busy  A,  B,  and  C,  and  reported  as  an 
engagement.'  The  flower  that  might  possibly  blossom 
into  the  rose  of  love  is  withered  and  blackened  by  the 
busy  efforts  of  gossips  to  pick  it  open  before  the  time. 

Our  young  friend,  Alice  Van  Arsdel,  was  what  in 
modern  estimation  would  be  called  just  the  "  nicest  kind 
of  a  girl."  She  had  a  warm  heart,  a  high  sense  of  jus 
tice  and  honor,  she  was  devout  in  her  religious  profes 
sion,  conscientious  in  the  discharge  of  the  duties  of 
family  life.  Naturally,  Alice  was  of  a  temperament 
which  might  have  inclined  her  to  worldly  ambition.  She 
had  that  keen  sense  of  the  advantages  of  wealth  and 
station  which  even  the  most  sensible  person  may  have, 
and,  had  her  father's  prosperity  continued,  might  have 
run  the  gay  career  of  flirtation  and  conquest  supposed  to 
be  proper  to  a  rich  young  belle. 

The  failure  of  her  father  not  only  cut  off  all  these 
prospects,  but  roused  the  deeper  and  better  part  of  her 
nature  to  comfort  and  support  her  parents,  and  to  assist 
in  all  ways  in  trimming  the  family  vessel  to  the  new  nav 
igation.  Her  self-esteem  took  a  different  form.  Had  she 
been  enthroned  in  wealth  and  station,  it  would  have  taken 
pleasure  in  reigning;  thrown  from  that  position,  it  be- 


JIM  AND  ALICE.  97 

came  her  pride  to  adapt  herself  entirely  to  the  proprieties 
of  her  different  circumstances.  Up  to  that  hour,  she  had 
counted  Jim  Fellows  simply  as  a  tassel  on  her  fan,  or  any 
other  appendage  to  her  glittering  life.  When  the  crash 
came,  she  expected  no  more  of  him  than  of  a  last  sum 
mer's  bird,  and  it  was  with  somewhat  of  pleased  surprise 
that,  on  the  first  public  tidings  of  the  news,  she  received 
from  Jim  an  expensive  hot-house  bouquet  of  a  kind  that 
he  had  never  thought  of  giving  in  prosperous  days. 

"  The  extravagant  boy !  "  she  said.  Yet  she  said  it 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  put  the  bouquet  into 
water,  and  changed  it  every  day  while  it  lasted.  The 
flowers  and  the  friends  of  adversity  have  a  value  all  their 
own. 

Then  Jim  came,  came  daily,  with  downright  unsenti 
mental  offers  of  help,  and  made  so  much  fun  and  gaiety 
for  them  in  the  days  of  their  breaking  up  as  almost 
shocked  Aunt  Maria,  who  felt  that  a  period  of  weeping 
and  wailing  would  have  been  more  appropriate.  Jim 
became  recognized  in  the  family  as  a  sort  of  factotum, 
always  alert  and  ready  to  advise  or  to  do,  and  generally 
knowing  where  every  body  or  thing  which  was  wanted 
in  New  York  was  to  be  found.  But,  as  Alice  was  by 
no  means  the  only  daughter,  as  Marie  and  Angelique 
were  each  in  their  way  as  lively  and  desirable  young 
candidates  for  admiration,  it  would  have  appeared  that 
here  was  the  best  possible  chance  for  a  young  man  to 
have  a  friendship  whose  buds  even  the  gossips  would 
not  pick  open  to  find  if  there  were  love  inside  of  them. 
As  a  young  neophyte  of  the  all-powerful  press,  Jirn  had 
the  dispensation  of  many  favors,  in  the  form  of  tickets  to 
operas,  concerts,  and  other  public  entertainments,  which 
were  means  of  conferring  enjoyment  and  variety,  and 
dispensed  impartially  among  the  sisters.  Eva's  house, 
in  all  the  history  of  its  finding,  inception,  and  construc- 

£ 


98  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

tion,  had  been  a  ground  for  many  a  familiar  meeting 
from  whence  had  grown  up  a  pleasant  feeling  of  com 
radeship  and  intimacy. 

The  things  that  specialized  this  intimacy,  as  relating 
to  Alice  more  than  to  the  other  sisters,  were  things  as  in 
definite  and  indefinable  as  the  shade  mark  between  two 
tints  of  the  rainbow ;  and  yet  there  undoubtedly  was 
a  peculiar  intimacy,  and  since  the  misfortunes  of  the 
family  it  had  been  of  a  graver  kind  than  before,  though 
neither  of  them  cared  to  put  it  into  words.  Between  a 
young  man  and  a  young  woman  of  marriageable  age  a 
friendship  of  this  kind,  if  let  alone,  generally  comes  to  its 
bud  and  blossom  in  its  own  season ;  and  there  is  some 
thing  unutterably  vexatious  and  revolting  to  every  fibre 
of  a  girl's  nature  to  have  any  well-meaning  interference 
to  force  this  denouement. 

Alice  enjoyed  the  unspoken  devotion  of  Jim,  which 
she  perceived  by  that  acute  sort  of  divination  of  which 
women  are  possessed ;  she  felt  quietly  sure  that  she  had 
more  influence  over  him,  could  do  more  with  him,  than 
any  other  woman;  and  this  consciousness  of  power  over 
a  man  is  something  most  agreeable  to  girls  of  Alice's  de 
gree  of  self-esteem.  She  assumed  to  be  a  sort  of  mentor; 
she  curbed  the  wild  sallies  of  his  wit,  rebuking  him  if  he 
travestied  a  hymn,  or  made  a  smart,  funny  application  of 
a  text  of  Scripture.  But,  as  she  generally  laughed,  the 
culprit  was  not  really  overborne  by  the  censure.  She 
had  induced  him  to  go  with  her  to  Mr.  St.  John's  church, 
and  even  to  take  a  class  in  the  Sunday-school,  where  he 
presided  with  the  unction  of  an  apostle  over  a  class  of 
street  "gamins"  who  certainly  never  found  a  more  enter 
taining  teacher. 

Now,  although  Marie  and  Angelique  were  also  teach 
ers  in  the  same  school,  it  somehow  always  happened  that 
Jim  and  Alice  walked  to  the  scene  of  their  duties  in  com- 


JIM  AND  ALICE.  99 

pany.  It  was  one  of  those  quiet,  unobserved  arrange 
ments  of  particles  which  are  the  result  of  laws  of  chemical 
affinity.  These  street  tete-a-tetes  gave  Alice  admirable 
opportunity  for  those  graceful  admonitions  which  are  so 
very  effective  on  young  gentlemen  when  coming  from 
handsome,  agreeable  monitors.  On  a  certain  Sunday 
morning  in  our  history,  as  Alice  was  on  her  way  to  the 
mission  school  with  Jim,  she  had  been  enjoining  upon 
him  to  moderate  his  extreme  liveliness  to  suit  the  duties 
of  the  place  and  scene. 

"  It 's  all  very  well,  Alice,"  he  said  to  her,  "  so  long  as 
I  do  n't  have  to  be  too  much  with  that  St.  John.  But 
I  declare  that  fellow  stirs  me  up  awfully:  he  looks  so 
meek  and  so  fearfully  pious  that  it  's  all  I  can  do  to  keep 
from  ripping  out  an  oath,  just  to  see  him  jump  !" 

"  Jim,  you  bad  fellow  !     How  can  you  talk  so  ?" 

"  Well,  it 's  a  serious  fact  now.  Ministers  ought  n't 
to  look  so  pious !  It 's  too  much  a  temptation.  Why, 
last  Sunday,  when  he  came  trailing  by  so  soft  and  meek 
and  asked  me  what  books  we  wanted,  I  perfectly  longed 
to  rip  out  an  oath  and  say,  '  Why  in  thunder  can't  you 
speak  louder.'  It's  a  temptation  of  the  devil,  I  know; 
t)ut  you  must  n't  let  St.  John  and  me  run  too  much  to 
gether,  or  I  shall  blow  out." 

"Oh,  Jim,  you  mustn't  talk  so.  Why,  you  really 
shock  me — you  grieve  me." 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  've  given  up  swearing  for  ever  so 
long,  but  some  kinds  of  people  do  tempt  me  fearfully, 
and  he  's  one  of  'em,  and  then  I  think  that  he  must  think 
I  'm  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing.  But  then,  you  see,  a 
wolf  understands  those  cubs  better  than  a  sheep.  You 
ought  to  hear  how  I  put  gospel  into  them.  I  make  'em 
come  out  on  the  responses  like  little  Trojans.  I  Ve 
promised  every  boy  who  is  *  sharp  up  '  on  his  Collect 
next  Sunday  a  new  pop-gun." 


100  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"O  Jim,   you  creature!"  said  Alice,  laughing. 

"  By  George,  Alice,  it 's  the  best  way.  You  do  n't 
know  anything  about  these  little  heathen.  You  've  got  to 
take  'em  where  they  live.  They  put  up  with  the  Collect 
for  the  sake  of  the  pop-gun,  you  see." 

"  But,  Jim,  I  really  was  in  hopes  that  you  would  look 
on  this  thing  seriously,"  said  Alice,  endeavoring  to  draw 
on  a  face  of  protest. 

"Why,  Alice,  I  am  serious;  didn't  I  go  round  to  the 
highways  and  hedges, drumming  up  those  little  varmints? 
Not  a  soul  of  them  would  have  put  his  head  inside  a 
Sunday-school  room  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me.  I  tell  you 
I  ought  to  be  encouraged  now.  I  'm  not  appreciated." 

"Oh  Jim,  you  have  done  beautifully." 

"I  should  think  I  had.  I  keep  a  long  face  while 
they  are  there,  and  don't  swear  at  Mr.  St.  John,  and 
sing  like  a  church  robin.  So  I  think  you  ought  to  let 
me  let  out  a  little  to  you  going  home.  That  eases  my 
mind  ;  it 's  the  confessional — Mr.  St.  John  believes  in 
that.  I  didn't  swear,  mind  you.  I  only  felt  like  it ;  may 
be  that  '11  wear  off,  by-and-by.  So  do  n't  give  me  up,  yet." 

"Oh,  I  don't;  and  I  'm  perfectly  sure,  Jim,  that  you 
are  the  very  person  that  can  do  good  to  these  wild  boys.. 
Of  course  the  free  experience  of  life  which  young  men 
have,  enables  them  to  know  how  to  deal  with  such  cases 
better  than  we  girls  can." 

"  Yes,  you  ought  to  hear  me  expound  the  command 
ments,  and  put  it  into  them  about  stealing  and  lying. 
You  see  Jim  knows  a  thing  or  two,  and  is  up  to  their 
tricks.  They  don't  come  it  round  Jim,  I  tell  you.  Any 
boy  that  do  n't  toe  the  crack  gets  it.  I  give  'em  C  sharp 
with  the  key  up." 

"O  Jim,  you  certainly  are  original  in  your  ways! 
But  I  dare  say  you 're  right,"  said  Alice.  "You  know 
how  to  get  on  with  them." 


JIM  AND  ALICE.  101 

"Indeed  I  do.  I  tell  you  I  know  what's, what  for 
these  boys,  though  I  don't  know,  an-3  oori't.s&re  ;ai>outy 
what  the  old  coves  did  in  the  first  two  centuries,  and  all 
that.  Don't  you  think,  Alice,  St.  John  is  a  little  prosy 
on  that  chapter?" 

"  Mr.  St.  John  is  such  a  good  man  that  I  receive 
everything  he  says  on  subjects  where  he  knows  more 
than  I  do,"  said  Alice,  virtuously. 

"  Oh  pshaw,  Alice !  if  a  fellow  has  to  swallow  every 
good  man's  hobby-horses,  hoofs,  tail  and  all,  why  he  '11 
have  a  good  deal  to  digest.  I  tell  you  St.  John  is  too 
*  other-worldly,'  as  Charles  Lamb  used  to  say.  He 
ought  to  get  in  love,  and  get  married.  I  think,  "now, 
that  if  our  little  Angie  would  take  him  in  hand  she  would 
bring  him  into  mortal  spheres,  make  a  nice  fellow  of 
him." 

"Oh,  Mr.  St.  John  never  will  marry,"  said  Alice,  sol 
emnly;  "he  is  devoted  to  the  church.  He  has  published 
a  tract  on  holy  virginity  that  is  beautiful." 

"Holy  grandmother!"  said  Jim;  "that's  all  bosh, 
Ally.  Now  you  are  too  sensible  a  girl  to  talk  that  way. 
That's  going  to  Rome  on  a  high  canter." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Alice,  stoutly.  "For  my 
part,  I  think  if  a  man,  for  the  sake  of  devoting  himself 
to  the  church,  gives  up  family  cares,  I  reverence  him. 
I  like  to  feel  that  my  rector  is  something  sacred  to  the 
altar.  The  very  idea  of  a  clergyman  in  any  other  than 
sacred  relations  is  disagreeable  to  me." 

"  Go  it,  now !  so  long  as  I  'm  not  the  clergyman !" 

"You  sauce-box!" 

"  Well,  now,  mark  my  words.  St.  John  is  a  man,  after 
all,  and  not  a  Fra  Angelico  angel,  with  a  long  neck  and 
a  lily  in  his  hand,  and,  I  tell  you,  when  Angie  sits  there 
at  the  head  of  her  class,  working  and  fussing  over  those 
girls,  she  looks  confoundedly  pretty,  and  if  St.  John 


102  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

finds  it  out  I. shall  think  the  better  of  him,  and  I  think 
he  vii:.  '•  /  '  .  . 

"Pshaw,  Jim,  he  never  looks  at  her." 

"Don't  he?  he  does  though.  I've  seen  him  go  round 
and  round,  and  look  at  her  as  if  she  was  an  electrical 
battery,  or  something  that  he  was  afraid  might  go  off 
and  kill  him.  But  he  does  look  at  her.  I  tell  you,  Jim 
knows  the  signs  of  the  sky." 

With  which  edifying  preparation  of  mind,  Alice  found 
herself  at  the  door  of  the  Sunday-school  room,  where  the 
pair  were  graciously  received  by  Mr.  St.  John, 


CHAPTER  X. 

MR.  ST.  JOHN. 

THAT  good  man,  in  the  calm  innocence  of  his  heart, 
was  ignorant  of  the  temptations  to  which  he  ex 
posed  his  tumultuous  young  disciple.  He  was  serenely 
gratified  with  the  sight  of  Jim's  handsome  face  and  alert, 
active  figure,  as  he  was  enacting  good  shepherd  over  his 
unruly  flock.  Had  he  known  the  exact  nature  of  the 
motives  which  he  presented  to  lead  them  to  walk  in  the 
ways  of  piety,  he  might  have  searched  a  good  while  in 
primitive  records  before  finding  a  churchly  precedent 

Arthur  St.  John  was  by  nature  a  poet  and  idealist 
He  was  as  pure  as  a  chrysolite,  as  refined  as  a  flower ; 
and,  being  thus,  had  been,  by  the  irony  of  fate,  born  on 
one  of  the  bleakest  hillsides  of  New  Hampshire,  where 
there  was  a  literal  famine  of  any  esthetic  food.  His 
childhood  had  been  fed  on  the  dry  husks  of  doctrinal 
catechism ;  he  had  sat  wearily  on  hard  high-backed  seats 
and  dangled  his  little  legs  hopelessly  through  sermons 
on  the  difference  between  justification  and  sanctification. 
His  ultra-morbid  conscientiousness  had  been  wrought 
into  agonized  convulsions  by  stringent  endeavors  to 
carry  him  through  certain  prescribed  formulae  of  convic 
tion  of  sin  and  conversion;  efforts  which,  grating  against 
natures  of  a  certain  delicate  fiber,  produce  wounds  and 
abrasions  which  no  after-life  can  heal.  To  such  a  one 
the  cool  shades  of  the  Episcopal  Church,  with  its  orderly 
ways,  its  poetic  liturgy,  its  artistic  ceremonies,  were  as  the 
shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land.  No  converts  are 


104  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

so  disposed  to  be  ultra  as  converts  by  reaction ;  and  per 
sons  of  a  poetic  and  imaginative  temperament  are  pecu 
liarly  liable  to  these  extremes. 

Wearied  with  the  intense  and  noisy  clangor  of  modern 
thought,  it  was  not  strange  if  he  should  come  to  think 
free  inquiry  an  evil,  look  longingly  back  on  the  ages 
of  simple  credulity,  and  believe  that  the  dark  ages  of  in 
tellect  were  the  bright  ones  of  faith.  Without  really 
going  over  to  the  Romish  Church,  he  proposed  to  walk 
that  path,  fine  as  the  blade  that  Mahomet  fabled  as  the 
Bridge  of  Paradise,  in  which  he  might  secure  all  the 
powers  and  influences  and  advantages  of  tnat  old  system 
without  its  defects  and  corruptions. 

So  he  had  established  his  mission  in  one  of  the  least 
hopeful  neighborhoods  of  New  York.  The  chapel  was  a 
marvel  of  beauty  and  taste  at  small  expense,  for  St.  John 
was  in  a  certain  way  an  ecclesiastical  architect  and  artist. 
He  could  illuminate  neatly,  and  had  at  command  a  good 
store  of  the  beautiful  forms  of  the  past  to  choose  from. 
He  worked  at  diaphanous  windows  which  had  all  the 
effect  of  painted  glass,  and  emblazoned  texts  and  legends, 
and  painted  in  polychrome,  till  the  little  chapel  daz 
zled  the  eyes  of  street  vagabonds,  who  never  before 
had  been  made  welcome  to  so  pretty  a  place  in  their 
lives.  Then,  when  he  impressed  it  on  the  minds  of  these 
poor  people  that  this  lovely,  pretty  little  church  was  their 
Father's  house,  freely  open  to  them  every  day,  and  that 
prayers  and  psalms  might  be  heard  there  morning  and 
evening,  and  the  holy  communion  of  Christ's  love  every 
Sunday,  it  is  no  marvel  if  many  were  drawn  in  and  im 
pressed.  Beauty  of  form  and  attractiveness  of  color  in 
the  church  arrangements  of  the  rich  may  cease  to  be 
means  of  grace  and  become  wantonness  of  luxury — but 
for  the  very  poor  they  are  an  education,  they  are  means 
of  quickening  the  artistic  sense,  which  is  twin  brother  to 


MR.   ST.   JOHN.  105 

the  spiritual.  The  rich  do  not  need  these  things,  and  the 
poor  do. 

St.  John,  like  many  men  of  seemingly  gentle  temper 
ament,  had  the  organizing  talent  of  the  schoolmaster.  No 
one  could  be  with  him  and  not  feel  him;  and  the  in 
tense  purpose  with  which  he  labored,  in  season  and  out 
of  season,  carried  all  before  it.  He  marshaled  his  forces 
like  an  army ;  his  eye  was  everywhere  and  on  everyone. 
He  trained  his  choir  of  singing  boys  for  processional 
singing;  he  instructed  his  teachers,  he  superintended  and 
catechised  his  school.  In  the  life  of  incessant  devotion 
to  the  church  which  he  led,  woman  had  no  place  except 
as  an  obedient  instrument.  He  valued  the  young  and 
fair  who  flocked  to  his  standard,  simply  and  only  for  what 
they  could  do  in  his  work,  and  apparently  had  no  worldly 
change  with  which  to  carry  on  commerce  of  society. 

Yet  it  was  true,  as  Jim  said,  that  his  eye  had  in  some 
way  or  other  been  caught  by  Angelique;  yet,  at  first,  it 
was  in  the  way  of  doubt  and  inquiry,  rather  than  ap 
proval. 

Angelique  was  gifted  by  nature  with  a  certain  air  of  pi 
quant  vivacity,  which  gave  to  her  pretty  person  the  effect 
of  a  French  picture.  In  heart  and  character  she  was 
a  perfect  little  self-denying  saint,  infinitely  humble  in  her 
own  opinion,  devoted  to  doing  good  wherever  her  hand 
could  find  it,  and  ready  at  any  time  to  work  her  pretty 
fingers  to  the  bone  in  a  good  cause.  But  yet  undeniably 
she  had  a  certain  style  and  air  of  fashion  not  a  bit 
like  "  St.  Jerome's  love "  or  any  of  the  mediaeval 
saints.  She  could  not  help  it.  It  was  not  her  fault 
that  everything  about  her  had  a  sort  of  facility  for  slid 
ing  into  trimly  fanciful  arrangement — that  her  little  hats 
would  sit  so  jauntily  on  her  pretty  head,  that  her  foot 
and  ankle  had  such  a  provoking  neatness,  and  that  her 
daintily  gloved  hands  had  a  hundred  little  graceful  move- 


106  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

ments  in  a  moment.  Then  her  hair  had  numberless  mu 
tinous  little  curly-wurlies,  and  flew  of  itself  into  the  golden 
mists  of  modern  fashion ;  and  her  almond-shaped  hazel 
eyes  had  a  trick  of  glancing  like  a  bird's,  and  she  looked 
always  as  if  a  smile  might  break  out  at  any  moment,  even 
on  solemn  occasions ; — all  which  were  traits  to  inspire 
doubt  in  the  mind  of  an  earnest  young  clergyman,  in  whose 
study  the  pictures  of  holy  women  were  always  lean,  long- 
favored,  with  eyes  rolled  up,  and  looking  as  if  they  never 
had  heard  of  a  French  hat  or  a  pair  of  gaiter-boots.  He 
watched  her  the  first  Sunday  that  she  sat  at  the  head  of 
her  class,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  serious-minded 
canary  bird,  and  wondered  whether  so  evidently  airy  and 
worldly  a  little  creature  would  adapt  herself  to  the  earnest 
work  before  her;  but  she  did  succeed  in  holding  a  set  of 
unpromising  street-girls  in  a  sort  of  enchanted  state  while 
she  chippered  to  them  in  various  little  persuasive  into 
nations,  made  them  say  catechism  after  her,  and  then  told 
them  stories  that  were  not  in  any  prayer-book.  After  a 
little  observation, he  was  convinced  that  she  would  "do." 
But  the  habit  of  watchfulness  continued  ! 

On  this  day,  as  Jim  had  suggested  the  subject, 
Alice  somehow  was  moved  to  remark  the  frequent  direc 
tion  of  Mr.  St.  John's  eyes. 

On  this  Sunday  Angelique  had  had  the  misfortune  to 
don  for  the  first  time  a  blue  suit,  with  a  blue  velvet  hat 
that  gave  a  brilliant  effect  to  her  golden  hair.  In  front 
of  this  hat,  nodding  with  every  motion  of  her  head,  was 
a  blue  and  gold  humming  bird.  She  wore  a  cape  of  er 
mine,  and  her  class  seemed  quite  dazzled  by  her  appear 
ance.  Now  Mr.  St.  John  had  worked  vigorously  to  get 
up  his  little  chapel  in  blue  and  gold,  gorgeous  to  behold ; 
but  a  blue  and  gold  teacher  was  something  that  there 
was  no  churchly  precedent  for — although  if  we  look  into 
the  philosophy  of  the  thing  there  may  be  the  same  sort  of 


MR.  ST.  JOHN.  107 

influence  exercised  over  street  barbarians  by  a  prettily- 
dressed  teacher  as  by  a  prettily-dressed  church.  But  as 
Mr.  St.  John  gazed  at  Angelique,  and  wondered  whether 
it  was  quite  the  thing  for  her  to  look  so  striking,  he  saw  a 
little  incident  that  touched  his  heart.  There  was  a  poor, 
pinched,  wan-visaged  little  girl,  the  smallest  in  the  class, 
whose  face  was  deformed  by  the  scar  of  a  fearful  burn. 
She  seemed  to  be  in  a  trembling  ecstacy  at  Angie's  finery, 
and  while  she  was  busy  with  her  lesson  stealthily  laid  her 
thin  little  hand  upon  the  ermine  cape.  Immediately  she 
was  sharply  reproved  by  a  coarse,  strong,  older  sister,  who 
had  her  in  charge,  and  her  hand  rudely  twitched  back. 

Angie  turned  with  bright,  astonished  eyes,  and  seeing 
the  little  creature  cowering  with  shame,  beamed  down  on 
her  a  lovely  smile,  stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"  You  like  it,  dear  ?  "  she  said  frankly.  "  Sit  up  and 
rest  your  cheek  on  it,if  you  like,"  and  Angie  gathered  her 
up  to  her  side  and  went  on  tellin-g  of  the  Good  Shepherd. 

Arthur  St.  John  took  the  whole  meaning  of  the  inci 
dent.  It  carried  him  back  beyond  the  catacombs  to 
something  more  authentic,  even  to  HIM  who  said,  "  Suffer 
little  children  to  come  unto  me,"  and  he  felt  a  strange, 
new  throb  under  his  surplice. 

The  throb  alarmed  him  to  the  degree  that  he  did  not 
look  in  that  direction  again  through  all  the  services, 
though  he  certainly  did  remark  certain  clear,  bird-like 
tones  in  the  chants  with  a  singular  feeling  of  nearness. 

Just  about  this  time,  St.  John,  unconsciously  to  him 
self,  was  dealing  with  forces  of  which  no  previous  expe 
rience  of  life  had  given  him  a  conception.  He  passed 
out  of  his  vestry  and  walked  to  his  solitary  study  in  a 
kind  of  maze  of  vague  reverie,  in  which  golden  hair  and 
hazel  eyes  seemed  strangely  blent  with  moral  enthusiasms. 
"  What  a  lovely  spirit !  "  he  thought ;  and  he  felt  as  if  he 
would  far  rather  have  followed  her  out  of  the  door  than 


108  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

to  have  come  to  the  cold,  solitary  sanctities  of  his  own 
room. 

Mr.  St.  John's  study  was  not  the  sanctum  of  a  self- 
indulgent,  petted  clergyman,  but  rather  that  of  one  who 
took  life  in  very  serious  earnest.  His  first  experience  of 
pastoral  life  having  been  among  the  poor,  the  sight  of  the 
disabilities,  wants,  and  dangers,  the  actual  terrible  facts 
of  human  existence,  had  produced  the  effect  on  him  that 
they  often  do  on  persons  of  extreme  sensibility  and  con 
scientiousness.  He  could  not  think  of  retaining  for  him 
self  an  indulgence  or  a  luxury  while  wants  so  terrible 
stared  him  in  the  face;  and  his  study,  consequently,  was 
furnished  in  the  ascetic  rather  than  the  esthetic  style.  Its 
only  ornaments  were  devotional  pictures  of  a  severe  me 
diaeval  type  and  the  books  of  a  well-assorted  library. 
There  was  no  carpet ;  there  were  no  lounging  chairs  or 
sofas  of  ease.  In  place  was  a  prie  dieu  of  approved  an 
tique  pattern,  on  which  stood  two  wax  candles  and  lay 
his  prayer-book.  A  crucifix  of  beautiful  Italian  work 
manship  stood  upon  it,  and  it  was  scrupulously  draped 
with  the  appropriate  churchly  color  of  the  season. 

As  we  have  said,  this  room  seemed  strangely  lonely 
as  he  entered  it.  He  was  tired  with  work  which  had  be 
gun  early  in  the  morning,  with  scarce  an  interval  of 
repose,  and  a  perversely  shocking  idea  presented  itself 
to  his  mind — how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  be  met  on 
returning  from  his  labors  by  just  such  a  smile  as  he 
had  seen  beaming  down  on  the  poor  little  girl. 

When  he  found  himself  out,  and  discovered  that  this 
was  where  his  thoughts  were  running  to,  he  organized  a 
manly  resistance  ;  and  recited  aloud,  with  unction  and 
emphasis,  Moore's  exquisite  version  of  St.  Jerome's  opin 
ion  of  what  the  woman  should  be  whom  a  true  priest 
might  love. 

"  Who  is  the  maid  my  spirit  seeks, 

Through  cold  reproof  and  slander's  blight  ? 


MR.   ST.  JOHN.  109 

Has  she  Love's  roses  on  her  cheeks  ? 

Is  her's  an  eye  of  this  world's  light  ? 
No — wan  and  sunk  with  midnight  prayer 

Are  the  pale  looks  of  her  I  love  ; 
Or  if  at  times  a  light  be  there, 

Its  beam  is  kindled  from  above. 

I  choose  not  her,  my  heart's  elect, 

From  those  who  seek  their  Maker's  shrine 
In  gems  and  garlands  proudly  deck'd 

As  if  themselves  were  things  divine. 
No — Heaven  but  faintly  warms  the  breast 

That  beats  beneath  a  broider'd  vail ; 
And  she  who  comes  in  glitt'ring  vest 

To  mourn  her  frailty,  still  is  frail. 

Not  so  the  faded  form  I  prize 

And  love,  because  its  bloom  is  gone  ; 
The  glory  in  those  sainted  eyes 

Is  all  the  grace  her  brow  puts  on. 
And  ne'er  was  Beauty's  dawn  so  bright, 

So  touching,  as  that  form's  decay 
Which,  like  the  altar's  trembling  light, 

In  holy  luster  wastes  away." 

"  Certainly,  not  in  the  least  like  her"  he  thought,  and 
he  resolved  to  dismiss  the  little  hat  with  the  humming 
bird,  the  golden  mist  of  hair,  and  the  glancing  eyes,  into 
the  limbo  of  vain  thoughts. 

Mr.  St.  John,  like  many  another  ardent  and  sincere 
young  clergyman,  had  undertaken  to  be  shepherd  and 
bishop  of  souls,  with  more  knowledge  on  every  possible 
subject  than  the  nature  of  the  men  and  women  he  was  to 
guide. 

A  fastidious  taste,  scholarly  habits,  and  great  sensi 
tiveness,  had  kept  him  out  of  society  during  all  his  colle 
giate  days.  His  life  had  been  that  of  a  devout  recluse. 
He  knew  little  of  mankind,  except  the  sick  and  decrepid 
old  women,  whom  he  freely  visited,  and  who  had  for 
nothing  the  vision  of  his  handsome  face  and  the  charm 


110  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

of  his  melodious  voice  amid  the  dirt  and  discomforts  of 
their  sordid  poverty.  But  fashionable  young  women,  the 
gay  daughters  of  ease  and  luxury,  were  to  him  rather  ob 
jects  of  suspicion  and  apprehension  than  of  attraction. 
If  they  flocked  to  his  church,  and  seemed  eager  to  enlist 
in  church  work  under  his  leadership,  he  was  determined 
that  there  should  be  no  sham  in  it.  In  sermon  after  ser 
mon,  he  denounced  in  stringent  terms  the  folly  and  guilt 
of  the  sentimental  religion  which  makes  playthings  of 
the  solemn  rituals  of  the  church,  which  wears  the  cross 
as  a  glittering  bauble  on  the  outside,  and  shrinks  from 
every  form  of  the  real  self-denial  which  it  symbolizes. 

Angelique,  by  nature  the  most  conscientious  of  be 
ings,  had  listened  to  this  eloquence  with  awful  self- 
condemnation.  She  felt  herself  a  dreadfully  sinful  little 
girl,  that  she  had  lived  so  unprofitable  a  life  hitherto,  and 
she  undertook  her  Sunday-school  labors  with  an  intense 
ardor.  When  she  came  to  visit  in  the  poor  dwellings 
from  whence  her  pupils  were  drawn,  and  to  see  how  de 
void  their  life  was  of  everything  which  she  had  been 
taught  to  call  comfort,  she  felt  wicked  and  selfish  for  en 
joying  even  the  moderate  luxuries  allowed  by  her  father's 
reduced  position.  The  allowance  that  had  been  given  her 
for  her  winter  wardrobe  seemed  to  be  more  than  she  had  a 
right  to  keep  for  herself  in  face  of  the  terrible  destitutions 
she  saw.  Secretly  she  set  herself  to  see  how  much  she 
could  save  from  it.  She  had  the  gift  of  a  quick  eye  and 
of  deft  fingers;  and  so,  after  running  through  the  fashion 
able  shops  of  dresses  and  millinery  to  catch  the  ideal  of 
the  hour,  she  went  to  work  for  herself.  A  faded  merino 
was  ripped,  dyed,  and,  by  the  aid  of  clever  patterns  and 
skillful  hands,  transformed  into  the  stylish  blue  suit. 
The  little  blue  velvet  hat  had  been  gathered  from  the 
trimmings  of  an  old  dress.  The  humming  bird  had 
been  a  necessary  appendage,  to  cover  the  piecing  of  the 


MR.  ST.  JOHN.  HI 

velvet;  and  thus  the  outfit  which  had  called  up  so  many 
alarmed  scruples  in  Mr.  St.  John's  mind  was  as  com 
pletely  a  work  of  self-denial  and  renunciation  as  if 
she  had  come  out  in  the  black  robe  of  a  Sister  of 
Charity. 

The  balance  saved  was,  in  her  own  happy  thought, 
devoted  to  a  Christmas  outfit  for  some  of  the  poorest  of 
her  scholars,  whose  mothers  struggled  hard  and  sat  up 
late  washing  and  mending  to  make  them  decent  to  be 
seen  in  Sunday-school. 

But  how  should  Mr.  St.  John  know  this,  which 
Angie  had  not  even  told  to  her  own  mother  and  sisters  ? 
To  say  the  truth,  she  feared  that  perhaps  she  might  be 
laughed  at  as  Quixotic,or  wanting  in  good  sense,in  going 
so  much  beyond  the  usual  standard  in  thoughtfulness 
for  others,  and,  at  any  rate,  kept  her  own  little  counsel. 
Mr.  St.  John  knew  nothing  about  women  in  that  class  of 
society,  their  works  and  ways,  where  or  how  they  got 
their  dresses  ;  but  he  had  a  general  impression  that  fash 
ionable  women  were  in  heathen  darkness,  and  spent 
on  dress  fabulous  amounts  that  might  be  given  to  the 
poor.  He  had  certain  floating  views  in  his  mind,  when 
further  advanced  in  his  ministry,  of  instituting  a  holy 
sisterhood,  who  should  wear  gray  cloaks,  and  spend  all 
their  money  and  time  in  deeds  of  charity. 

On  the  present  occasion,  he  could  see  only  the  very 
patent  fact  that  Angelique's  dress  was  stylish  and  be 
coming  to  an  alarming  degree ;  that,  taken  in  connection 
with  her  bright  cheeks,  her  golden  hair,  and  glancing 
hazel  eyes,  she  was  to  the  full  as  worldly  an  object 
as  a  blue-bird,  or  an  oriole,  or  any  of  those  brilliant 
creatures  with  which  it  has  pleased  the  Maker  of  all  to 
distract  our  attention  in  our  pilgrimage  through  this  sin 
ful  and  dying  world. 

Angie  was  so  far  from  assuming  to  herself  any  merit 


112  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

in  this  sacrifice  that  her  only  thought  was  how  little  it 
would  do.  Had  it  been  possible  and  proper,  she  would 
have  willingly  given  her  ermine  cape  to  the  poor,  wan 
little  child,  to  whom  the  mere  touch  of  it  was  such  a 
strange,  bewildering  luxury ;  but  she  had  within  herself 
a  spice  of  practical  common  sense  which  showed  her 
that  our  most  sacred  impulses  are  not  always  to  be  liter 
ally  obeyed. 

Yet,  while  the  little  scarred  cheek  was  resting  on  her 
ermine  in  such  apparent  bliss,  there  mingled  in  with  the 
thread  of  her  instructions  to  the  children  a  determina 
tion  next  day  to  appraise  cheap  furs,  and  see  if  she 
could  not  bless  the  little  one  with  a  cape  of  her  very  own. 

Angie's  quiet  common  sense  always  stood  her  in 
good  stead  in  moderating  her  enthusiasms,  and  even 
carried  her  at  times  to  the  length  of  differing  with  the 
rector,  to  whom  she  looked  up  as  an  angel  guide.  For 
example,  when  he  had  expatiated  on  the  propriety  and 
superior  sanctity  of  coming  fasting  to  the  holy  commun 
ion,  sensible  Angie  had  demurred. 

"I  must  teach  my  class,"  she  pleaded  with  herself, 
"and  if  I  should  go  all  that  long  way  up  to  church 
without  my  breakfast,  I  should  have  such  a  sick-head 
ache  that  I  couldn't  do  anything  properly  for  them.  I  'm 
always  cross  and  stupid  when'that  comes  on." 

Thus  Angie  concluded  by  her  own  little  light,  in 
her  own  separate  way,  that  "  to  do  good  was  better  than 
sacrifice."  Nevertheless,  she  supposed  all  this  was  be 
cause  she  was  so  low  down  in  the  moral  scale,  for  did 
not  Mr.  St.  John  fast? — doubtless  it  gave  him  headache, 
but  he  was  so  good  he  went  on  just  as  well  with  a  head 
ache  as  without — and  Angie  felt  how  far  she  must  rise  to 
be  like  that. 

******** 

"There    now,"   said    Jim     Fellows,   triumphantly,   to 


MR.  ST.  JOHN.  113 

Alice,  as  they  were  coming  home,  "didn't  you  see  your 
angel  of  the  churches  looking  in  a  certain  direction  this 
morning?" 

Alice  had,  as  a  last  resort,  a  fund  of  reserved  dignity 
which  she  could  draw  upon  whenever  she  was  really 
and  deeply  in  earnest. 

"Jim,"  she  said,  without  a  smile,  and  in  a  grave  tone, 
"  I  have  confidence  that  you  are  a  true  friend  to  us  all." 

"Well,  I  hope  so,"  said  Jim,  wonderingly. 

"And  you  are  too  kind-hearted  and  considerate  to 
wish  to  give  real  pain." 

"Certainly  I  am." 

"Well,  then,  promise  me  never  to  make  remarks  of 
that  nature  again,  to  me  or  anybody  else,  about  Angie 
and  Mr.  St.  John.  It  would  be  more  distressing  and 
annoying  to  her  than  anything  you  could  do;  and  the 
dear  child  is  now  perfectly  simple-hearted  and  uncon 
strained,  and  cheerful  as  a  bird  in  her  work.  The 
least  intimation  of  this  kind  might  make  her  conscious 
and  uncomfortable,  and  spoil  it  all.  So  promise  me 
now." 

Jim  eyed  his  fair  monitress  with  the  kind  of  wicked 
twinkle  a  naughty  boy  gives  to  his  mother,  to  ascertain 
if  she  is  really  in  earnest,  but  Alice  maintained  a  brow 
of  "  sweet,  austere  composure,"  and  looked  as  if  she  ex 
pected  to  be  obeyed. 

"Well,  I  perfectly  long  for  a  hit  at  St.  John,"  he  said, 
"but  if  you  say  so,  so  it  must  be." 

"You  promise  on  your  honor?"  insisted  Alice. 
1       "Yes,  I  promise  on  my  honor;  so  there  !"  said  Jim. 
"  I  wont  even   wink  an   eyelid  in  that  direction.     I  '11 
make  a  perfect   stock  and   stone  of  myself.     But,"  he 
added,  "  Jim  can  have  his  thoughts  for  all  that." 

Alice  was  not  exactly  satisfied  with  the  position  as 
sumed  by  her  disciple,  she  therefore  proceeded  to  fortify 


114  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

him  in  grace  by  some  farther  observations,  delivered  in  a 
very  serious  tone. 

"For  my  part,"  she  said,  "I  think  nothing  is  in  such 
bad  taste,  to  say  the  least,  as  the  foolish  way  in  which 
some  young  people  will  allow  themselves  to  talk  and 
think  about  an  unmarried  young  clergyman,  while  he 
is  absorbed  in  duties  so  serious  and  has  feelings  so  far 
above  their  comprehension.  The  very  idea  or  suggestion 
of  a  flirtation  between  a  clergyman  and  one  of  his  flock 
is  utterly  repulsive  and  disagreeable." 

Here  Jim,  with  a  meek  gravity  of  face,  simply  inter 
posed  the  question  : 

"What  is  flirtation?" 

"  You  know,  now,  as  well  as  I  do,"  said  Alice,  with 
heightened  color.  "You  needn't  pretend  you  don't." 

"  Oh,"  said  Jim.  "  Well,  then,  I  suppose  I  do."  And 
the  two  walked  on  in  silence,  for  some  way ;  Jim  with  an 
air  of  serious  humility,  as  if  in  a  deep  study,  and  Alice 
with  cheeks  getting  redder  and  redder  with  vexation. 

"Now,  Jim,"  she  said -at  last,  "you  are  very  pro 
voking." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  give  in  to  everything  you  say,"  said  Jim, 
in  an  injured  tone. 

"  But  you  act  just  as  if  you  were  making  fun  all  the 
time;  and  you  know  you  are." 

"Upon  my  word  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I 
have  assented  to  every  word  you  said — given  up  to  you 
hook  and  line — and  now  you're  not  pleased.  I  tell  you 
it  's  rough  on  a  fellow." 

"Oh,  come,"  said  Alice,  laughing  at  the  absurdity  of 
the  quarrel;  "there  's  no  use  in  scolding  you." 

Jim  laughed  too,  and  felt  triumphant ;  and  just  then 
they  turned  a  corner  and  met  Aunt  Maria  coming  from 
church. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

AUNT    MARIA    CLEARS    HER    CONSCIENCE. 

WHEN  Mrs.  Wouvermans  met  our  young  friends, 
she  was  just  returning  home  after  performing 
her  morning  devotions  in  one  of  the  most  time-honored 
churches  in  New  York.  She  was  as  thorough  and  faith 
ful  in  her  notions  of  religion  as  of  housekeeping.  She 
adhered  strictly  to  her  own  church,  in  which  undeniably 
none  but  ancient  and  respectable  families  worshiped,  and 
where  she  was  perfectly  sure  that  whatever  of  dress  or 
deportment  she  saw  was  certain  to  be  the  correct  thing. 

It  was  a  church  of  eminent  propriety.  It  was  large 
and  lofty,  with  long-drawn  aisles  and  excellent  sleeping 
accommodations,  where  the  worshipers  were  assisted  to 
dream  of  heaven  by  every  appliance  of  sweet  music,  and 
not  rudely  shaken  in  their  slumbers  by  any  obtrusive- 
ness  on  the  part  of  the  rector. 

In  fact,  everything  about  the  services  of  this  church 
was  thoroughly  toned  down  by  good  breeding.  The  re 
sponses  of  the  worshipers  were  given  in  decorous  whis 
pers  that  scarcely  disturbed  the  solemn  stillness ;  for 
when  a  congregation  of  the  best-fed  and  best-bred  people 
of  New  York  on  their  knees  declare  themselves  "  miser 
able  sinners,"  it  is  a  matter  of  delicacy  to  make  as  little 
disturbance  about  it  as  possible.  A  well-paid  choir  of 
the  finest  professional  singers  took  the  whole  responsi 
bility  of  praising  God  into  their  own  hands,  so  that  the 
respectable  audience  were  relieved  from  any  necessity 
of  exertion  in  that  department.  As  the  most  brilliant 


116  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

lights  of  the  opera  were  from  time  to  time  engaged  to 
render  the  more  solemn  parts  of  the  service,  flocks  of 
sinners  who  otherwise  would  never  have  entered  a  church 
crowded  to  hear  these  "morning  stars  sing  together;" 
let  us  hope,  to  their  great  edification.  The  sermons  of 
the  rector,  delivered  in  the  dim  perspective,  had  a 
plaintive,  far-off  sound,  as  a  voice  of  one  "  crying  in  the 
wilderness,"  and  crying  at  a  very  great  distance.  This 
was  in  part  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  church,  having 
been  built  after  an  old  English  ecclesiastical  model  in 
days  when  English  churches  were  used  only  for  proces 
sional  services,  was  entirely  unadapted  for  any  purposes 
of  public  speaking,  so  that  a  man's  voice  had  about  as 
good  chance  of  effect  in  it  as  if  he  spoke  anywhere  in 
the  thoroughfares  of  New  York. 

The  rector,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Gushing,  was  a  good,  amia 
ble  man; middle-aged,  adipose,  discreet,  devoted  to  "our 
excellent  liturgy,"  and  from  his  heart  opposed  to  any 
thing  which  made  trouble. 

From  the  remote  distances  whence  his  short  Sunday 
cry  was  uttered,  he  appeared  moved  to  send  protests 
against  two  things :  first,  the  tendency  to  philosophical 
speculation  and  the  skeptical  humanitarian  theories  of 
the  age ;  and  second,  against  Romanizing  tendencies  in 
the  church.  The  young  missionary,  St.  John,  who  got 
up  to  early  services  at  conventual  hours,  and  had  prayers 
every  morning  and  evening,'  and  communion  every  Sun 
day  and  every  Saint's  day ;  who  fasted  on  all  the  Ember 
Days,  and  called  on  other  people  to  fast,  and  seemed 
literally  to  pray  without  ceasing;  appeared  to  him  a 
bristling  impersonation  of  the  Romanizing  tendencies  of 
the  age,  and  one  of  those  who  troubled  Israel.  The 
fact  that  many  of  the  young  ladies  of  the  old  established 
church  over  which  the  good  Doctor  ministered  were 
drawn  to  flock  up  to  the  services  of  this  disturber  gave 


AUNT  MARIA   CLEARS  HER  CONSCIENCE.      H? 

to   him  a  realizing  sense   of   the   danger   to  which  the 
whole  church  was  thereby  exposed. 

On  this  particular  morning  he  had  selected  that  well- 
worn  text,  "  Are  not  Abana  and  Pharpar,  rivers  of  Dam 
ascus,  better  than  all  the  waters  of  Jordan  ?  May  I  not 
wash  in  them  and  be  clean?" 

Of  course,  like  everybody  who  preaches  on  this  text, 
he  assumed  that  Jordan  was  the  true  faith  as  he  preached 
it,  and  that  the  rivers  of  Damascus  were  any  and  every 
faith  that  diverged  from  his  own. 

These  improper  and  profane  rivers  -were  various. 
There  was,  of  course,  modern  skepticism  with  profuse  al 
lusions  to  Darwin  ;  there  were  all  sorts  of  modern  hu 
manitarian  and  social  reforms;  and  there  was  in  the  bosom 
of  the  very  church  herself,  he  regretted  to  state,  a  dispo 
sition  to  go  off  after  the  Abana  and  Pharpar  of  Romish 
abominations.  All  these  were  to  be  avoided,  and  people 
were  to  walk  in  those  quiet  paths  of  godliness  in  which 
they  had  been  brought  up  to  walk,  and,  in  short,  do 
pretty  much  as  they  had  been  doing,  undisturbed  by  new 
notions,  or  movements,  or  ideas,  whether  out  of  the 
church  or  in. 

And  as  he  plaintively  recited  these  exhortations,  his 
voice  coming  in  a  solemn  and  spectral  tone  adown  the 
far-off  aisles,  it  seemed  to  give  a  dreamy  and  unreal  effect 
even  to  the  brisk  modern  controversies  and  disturbances 
which  formed  his  theme.  The  gorgeous,  many-colored 
lights  streamed  silently  the  while  through  the  stained 
windows,  turning  the  bald  head  of  one  ancient  church 
warden  yellow,  and  of  another  green,  and  another  pur 
ple,  while  the  white  feathers  on  Mrs.  Demas's  bonnet 
passed  gradually  through  successive  tints  of  the  rainbow ; 
and  the  audience  dosed  off  at  intervals,  and  awakened 
again  to  find  the  rector  at  another  head,  and  talking 
about  something  else  ;  and  so  on  till  the  closing  ascription 


118  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

to  the  Trinity,  when  everybody  rose  with  a  solemn  sense 
that  something  or  other  was  over.  The  greater  part  of 
the  audience  in  the  intervals  of  somnolency  congratulated 
themselves  that  they  were  in  no  danger  of  running  after 
new  ideas,  and  thanked  God  that  they  never  speculated 
about  philosophy.  As  to  turning  out  to  daily  morning 
and  evening  prayers,  or  fasting  on  any  days  whatsoever, 
or  going  into  any  extravagant  excesses  of  devotion  and 
self-sacrifice,  they  were  only  too  happy  to  find  that  it  was 
their  duty  to  resist  the  very  suggestion  as  tending  direct 
ly  to  Romanism. 

The  true  Jordan,  they  were  happy  to  find,  ran  directly 
through  their  own  particular  church,  and  they  had  only 
to  continue  their  stated  Sunday  naps  on  its  borders  as 
before. 

Mrs.  Wouvermans,  however,  was  not  of  a  dozing  or 
dreamy  nature.  Her  mind,  such  as  it  was,  was  always 
wide  awake  and  cognizant  of  what  she  was  about.  She 
was  not  susceptible  of  a  dreamy  state  :  to  use  an  idiom 
atic  phrase,  she  was  always  up  and  dressed  ;  everything 
in  her  mental  vision  was  clear  cut  and  exact.  The  ser 
mon  was  intensified  in  its  effect  upon  her  by  the  state  of 
the  Van  Arsdel  pew,  of  which  she  was  on  this  Sunday 
the  only  occupant.  The  fact  was,  that  the  ancient  and 
respectable  church  in  which  she  worshiped  had  just  been 
through  a  contest,  in  which  Mr.  Simons,  a  young  assist 
ant  rector,  had  been  attempting  to  introduce  some  of 
the  very  practices  hinted  at  in  the  discourse.  This  fer 
vid  young  man,  full  of  fire  and  enthusiasm,  had  incau 
tiously  been  made  associate  rector  for  this  church,  at  the 
time  when  Dr.  Gushing  had  been  sent  to  Europe  to  re 
cover  from  a  bronchial  attack.  He  was  young,  earnest 
and  eloquent,  and  possessed  with  the  idea  that  all  those 
burning  words  and  phrases  in  the  prayer-book,  which  had 
dropped  like  precious  gems  dyed  with  the  heart's  blood  of 


A  UNT  MARIA  CLEARS  HER  CONSCIENCE.      H9 

saints  and  martyrs,  ought  to  mean  something  more  than 
they  seemed  to  do  for  modern  Christians.  Without  in 
troducing  any  new  ritual,  he  set  himself  to  make  vivid 
and  imperative  every  doctrine  and  direction  of  the 
prayer-book,  and  to  bring  the  drowsy  eompany  of  pew- 
holders  somewhere  up  within  sight  of  the  plane  of  the 
glorious  company  of  apostles  and  the  noble  army  of 
martyrs  with  whose  blood  it  was  sealed.  He  labored 
and  preached,  and  strove  and  prayed,  tugging  at  the 
drowsy  old  church,  like  Pegasus  harnessed  to  a  stone 
cart.  He  set  up  morning  and  evening  prayers,  had  com 
munion  every  Sunday,  and  annoyed  old  rich  saints  by 
suggesting  that  it  was  their  duty  to  build  mission  chapels 
and  carry  on  mission  works,  after  the  pattern  of  St.  Paul 
and  other  irrelevant  and  excessive  worthies,  who  in  their 
time  were  accused  of  turning  the  world  upside  down. 
Of  course  there  was  resistance  and  conflict,  and  more 
life  in  the  old  church  than  it  had  known  for  years ;  but 
the  conflict  became  at  last  so  wearisome  that,  on  Mr. 
Cushing's  return  from  Europe,  the  young  angel  spread 
his  wings  and  fled  away  to  a  more  congenial  parish  in  a 
neighboring  city. 

But  many  in  whom  his  labors  had  wakened  a  craving 
for  something  real  and  earnest  in  religion  strayed  off  to 
other  churches,  and  notably  the  younger  members  of  the 
Van  Arsdel  family,  to  the  no  small  scandal  of  Aunt  Maria. 

The  Van  Arsdel  pew  was  a  perfect  fort  and  intrench- 
ment  of  respectability.  It  was  a  great  high,  square  wall- 
pew,  well  cushioned  and  ample,  with  an  imposing  array  of 
prayer-books ;  there  was  room  in  it  for  a  regiment  of 
saints,  and  here  Aunt  Maria  sat  on  this  pleasant  Sunday 
listening  to  the  dangers  of  the  church,  all  alone.  She 
felt,  in  a  measure,  like  Elijah  the  Tishbite,  as  if  she 
only  were  left  to  stand  up  for  the  altars  of  her  faith. 

Mrs.  Wouvermans  was  not  a  person  to  let  an  evil  run 


120  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

on  very  far  without  a  protest.  "While  she  was  musing 
the  fire  burned,"  and  when  she  had  again  mounted  guard 
in  the  pew  at  afternoon  service,  and  still  found  herself 
alone,  she  resolved  to  clear  her  conscience;  and  so  she 
walked  straight  up  to  Nellie's,  to  see  why  none  of  them 
were  at  church. 

"  It's  a  shame,  Nellie,  a  perfect  shame  !  There  wasn't 
a  creature  but  myself  in  our  pew  to-day,  and  good  Dr. 
Gushing  giving  such  a  sermon  this  morning!" 

This  to  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  whom  she  found  luxuriously 
ensconced  on  a  sofa  drawn  up  before  the  fire  in  her  bed 
room. 

"Ah,  well,  the  fact  is,  Maria,  I  had  such  a  headache 
this  morning,"  replied  she,  plaintively. 

"  Well,  then,  you  ought  to  have  made  your  husband 
and  family  go ;  somebody  ought  to  be  there !  It  posi 
tively  isn't  respectable." 

"Ah,  well,  Maria,  my  husband,  poor  man,  gets  so 
tired  and  worn  out  with  his  week's  work,  I  haven't  a 
heart  to  get  him  up  early  enough  for  morning  service. 
Mr.  Van  Arsdel  isn't  feeling  quite  well  lately;  he  hasn't 
been  out  at  all  to-day." 

"  Well,  there  are  the  girls,  Alice  and  Angelique  and 
Marie,  where  are  they  ?  All  going  up  to  that  old  Popish, 
ritualistic  chapel,  I  suppose.  It's  too  bad.  Now,  that's 
all  the  result  of  Mr.  Simons's  imprudences.  I  told  you, 
in  the  time  of  it,  just  what  it  would  lead  to.  It  leads 
straight  to  Rome,  just  as  I  said.  Mr.  Simons  set  them 
a-going,  and  now  he  is  gone  and  they  go  where  they  have 
lighted  candles  on  the  altar  every  Sunday,  and  Mr.  St. 
John  prays  with  his  back  to  them,  and  has  processions, 
and  wears  all  sorts  of  heathenish  robes ;  and  your  daugh 
ters  go  there,  Nellie." 

The  very  plumes  in  Aunt  Maria's  hat  nodded  with 
warning  energy  as  she  spoke 


A  UNT  MARIA  CLEARS  HER  CON-SCIENCE.      121 

"Are  you  sure  the  candles  are  lighted?"  said  Mrs. 
Van  Arsdel,  sitting  up  with  a  weak  show  of  protest,  and 
looking  gravely  into  the  fire.  "  I  was  up  there  once,  and 
there  were  candles  on  the  altar,  to  be  sure,  but  they  were 
not  lighted." 

"They  are  lighted,"  said  Mrs.  Wouvermans,  with 
awful  precision.  "  I've  been  up  there  myself  and  seen 
them.  Now,  how  can  you  let  your  children  run  at  loose 
ends  so,  Nellie  ?  I  only  wish  you  had  heard  the  sermon 
this  morning.  He  showed  the  danger  of  running  into 
Popery;  and  it  really  was  enough  to  make  one's  blood  run 
cold  to  hear  how  those  infidels  are  attacking  the  church, 
carrying  all  before  them;  and  then  to  think  that  the 
only  true  church  should  be  all  getting  divided  and 
mixed  up  and  running  after  Romanism !  It's  perfectly 
awful." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  we  can  do,"  said  Mrs.  Van 
Arsdel,  helplessly. 

"  And  we've  got  both  kinds  of  trouble  in  our  family. 
Eva's  husband  is  reading  all  What's-his-name's  works — 
that  evolution  man,  and  all  that;  and  then  Eva  and  the 
girls  going  after  this  St.  John — and  he's  leading  them 
as  straight  to  Rome  as  they  can  go." 

Poor  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  was  somewhat  fluttered  by 
this  alarming  view  of  the  case,  and  clasped  her  pretty, 
fat,  white  hands,  that  glittered  with  rings  like  lilies  with 
dew-drops,  and  looked  the  image  of  gentle,  incapable 
perplexity. 

"  I  don't  believe  Harry  is  an  infidel,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  He  has  to  read  Darwin  and  all  those  things,  because 
he  has  to  talk  about  them  in  the  magazine  ;  and  as  to 
Mr.  St.  John — you  know  Eva  is  delicate  and  can't  walk 
so  far  as  our  church,  and  this  is  right  round  the  corner 
from  her ;  and  Mr.  St.  John  is  a  good  man.  He  does 
ever  so  much  for  the  poor,  and  almost  supports  a  mission 
F 


123  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

there ;  and  the  Bishop  doesn't  forbid  him,  and  if  the 
Bishop  thought  there  was  any  danger, he  would." 

"  Well,  I  can't  think,  for  my  part,  what  our  Bishop  can 
be  thinking  of,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  who  was  braced  up  to 
an  extraordinary  degree  by  the  sermon  of  the  morning. 
"  I  don't  see  how  he  can  let  them  go  on  so — with  candles, 
and  processions,  and  heathen  robes,  and  all  that.  I'd 
process  'em  out  of  the  church  in  quick  time.  If  I  were 
he,  I'd  have  all  that  sort  of  trumpery  cleaned  out  at 
once ;  for  just  see  where  it  leads  to !  I  may  not  be  as 
good  a  Christian  as  I  ought  to  be — we  all  have  our  short 
comings — but  one  thing  I  know,  /  do  hate  the  Catholics 
and  all  that  belongs  to  them;  and  I'd  no  more  have  such 
goings  on  in  my  diocese  than  I'd  have  moths  in  my  car 
pet  !  I'd  sweep  'em  right  out !"  said  Aunt  Maria,  with  a 
gesture  as  if  she  held  the  besom  of  destruction. 

Mrs.  Wouvermans  belonged  to  a  not  uncommon  class 
of  Christians,  whose  evidences  of  piety  are  more  vigorous 
in  hating  than  in  loving.  There  is  no  manner  of  doubt 
that  she  would  have  made  good  her  word,  had  she  been  a 
bishop. 

"  Oh,  well,  Maria,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  drawing 
her  knit  zephyr  shawl  about  her  with  a  sort  of  consola 
tory  movement,  and  settling  herself  cosily  back  on  her 
sofa,  "it's  evident  that  the  Bishop  doesn't  see  just  as 
you  do,  and  I  am  content  to  allow  what  he  does.  As  to 
the  girls,  they  are  old  enough  to  judge  for  themselves, 
and,  besides,  I  think  they  are  doing  some  good  by  teach 
ing  in  that  mission  school.  I  hope  so,  at  least.  Any 
way,  I  couldn't  help  it  if  I  would.  But,  do  tell  me,  did 
Mrs.  Demas  have  on  her  new  bonnet?" 

"Yes,  she  did,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  with  vigor;  "and 
I  can  tell  you  it 's  a  perfect  fright,  if  it  did  come  from 
Paris.  Another  thing  I  saw— fringes  have  come  round 
again'  Mrs.  Lamar's  new  cloak  was  trimmed  with  fringe." 


A  UNT  MARIA  CLEARS  HER  CONSCIENCE.      123 

"You  don't  say  so,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  contem 
plating  all  the  possible  consequences  of  this  change. 
"  There  was  another  reason  why  I  could  n't  go  out  this 
morning,"  she  added,  rather  irrelevantly — "I  had  no 
bonnet.  Adrienne  couldn't  get  the  kind  of  ruche  neces 
sary  to  finish  it  till  next  week,  and  the  old  one  is  too 
shabby.  Were  the  Stuyvesants  out?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  in  full  force.  She  has  the  same  bonnet  she 
wore  last  year,  done  over  with  a  new  feather." 

"  Oh,  well,  the  Stuyvesants  can  do  as  they  please," 
said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel ;  "  everybody  knows  who  they  are, 
let  them  wear  what  they  will." 

"  Emma  Stuyvesant  had  a  new  Paris  hat  and  a  sacque 
trimmed  with  bullion  fringe,"  continued  Aunt  Maria. 
"  I  thought  I'd  tell  you,  because  you  can  use  what  was  on 
your  velvet  dress  over  again;  it 's  just  as  good  as  ever." 

"  So  I  can  " — and  for  a  moment  the  great  advantage 
of  going  punctually  to  church  appeared  to  Mrs.  Van 
Arsdel.  "Did  you  see  Sophie  Sidney?" 

"Yes.  She  was  gorgeous  in  a  mauve  suit  with  hat  to 
match ;  but  she  has  gone  off  terribly  in  her  looks — yellow 
as  a  lemon." 

"Who  else  did  you  see?"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  who 
liked  this  topic  of  conversation  better  than  the  dangers 
of  the  church. 

"  Oh,  well,  the  Davenports  were  there,  and  the  Liv 
ingstones,  and  of  course  Polly  Elmore,  with  her  tribe, 
looking  like  birds  of  Paradise.  The  amount  of  time  and 
money  and  thought  that  family  gives  to  dress  is  enor 
mous!  John  Davenport  stopped  and  spoke  to  me 
coming  out  of  church.  He  says,  '  Seems  to  me,  Mrs. 
Wouvermans,  your  young  ladies  have  deserted  us ;  you 
mustn't  suffer  them  to  stray  from  the  fold,'  says  he.  I 
saw  he  had  his  eye  on  our  pew  when  he  first  came  into 
church." 


124  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

*'I  think,  Maria,  you  really  are  quite  absurd  in  your 
suspicions  about  that  man,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel.  "  I 
don't  think  there  's  anything  in  it." 

"  Well,  just  wait  now  and  see.  I  know  more  about  it 
than  you  do.  If  only  Alice  manages  her  cards  right,  she 
can  get  that  man." 

"  Alice  will  never  manage  cards  for  any  purpose.  She 
is  too  proud  for  that.  She  has  n't  a  bit  of  policy." 

"And  there  was  that  Jim  Fellows  waiting  on  her 
home.  I  met  him  this  morning,  just  as  I  turned  the 
corner." 

"  Well,  Alice  tries  to  exert  a  good  influence  over  Jim, 
and  has  got  him  to  teach  in  Mr.  St.  John's  Sunday- 
school." 

"Fiddlesticks!  What  does  he  care  for  Sunday- 
school?" 

"  Well,  the  girls  all  say  that  he  does  nicely.  He  has 
more  influence  over  that  class  of  boys  than  anybody  else 
would." 

"  Likely !  Set  a  rogue  to  catch  a  rogue,"  said  Aunt 
Maria.  "  It 's  his  being  seen  so  much  with  Alice  that 
I  'm  thinking  of.  You  may  depend  upon  it,  it  has  a  bad 
effect." 

Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  dreaded  the  setting  of  her  sister's 
mind  in  this  direction,  so  by  way  of  effecting  a  diversion 
she  rang  and  inquired  when  tea  would  be  ready.  As  the 
door  opened,  the  sound  of  very  merry  singing  came  up 
stairs.  Angelique  was  seated  at  the  piano  and  playing 
tunes  out  of  one  of  the  Sunday-school  manuals,  and  the 
whole  set  were  singing  with  might  and  main.  Jim's  tenor 
could  be  heard  above  all  the  rest. 

"Why,  is  that  fellow  here?"  said  Aunt  Maria. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel;  "he  very  often  stays 
to  tea  with  us  Sunday  nights,  and  he  and  the  girls  sing 
hymns  together." 


A  UNT  MARIA   CLEARS  HER  CONSCIENCE.      125 

"Hymns!"  said  Aunt  Maria.  "I  should  call  that  a 
regular  jollification  that  they  are  having  down  there." 

"Oh,  well,  Maria,  they  are  singing  children's  tunes 
out  of  one  of  the  little  Sunday-school  manuals.  You 
know  children's  tunes  are  so  different  from  old-fashioned 
psalm  tunes !" 

Just  then  the  choir  below  struck  up 

"  Forward,  Christian  soldier/' 

with  a  marching  energy  and  a  vivacity  that  was  positively 
startling,  and,  to  be  sure,  not  in  the  least  like  the  old, 
long-drawn,  dolorous  strains  once  supposed  to  be  pecu 
liar  to  devotion.  In  fact,  one  of  the  greatest  signs  of 
progress  in  our  modern  tunes  is  the  bursting  forth  of  re 
ligious  thought  and  feeling  in  childhood  and  youth  in 
strains  gay  and  airy  as  hope  and  happiness — melodies 
that  might  have  been  learned  of  those  bright  little  "  fowls 
of  the  air,"  of  whom  the  Master  bade  us  take  lessons,  so 
that  a  company  of  wholesome,  healthy,  right-minded 
young  people  can  now  get  together  and  express  them 
selves  in  songs  of  joy,  and  hope,  and  energy,  such  as 
childhood  and  youth  ought  to  be  full  of. 

Let  those  who  will  talk  of  the  decay  of  Christian  faith 
in  our  day;  so  long  as  songs  about  Jesus  and  his  love  are 
bursting  forth  on  every  hand,  thick  as  violets  and  apple 
blossoms  in  June,  so  long  as  the  little  Sunday-school  song 
books  sell  by  thousands  and  by  millions,  and  spring  forth 
every  year  in  increasing  numbers,  so  long  will  it  appear 
that  faith  is  ever  fresh-springing  and  vital.  It  was  the 
little  children  in  the  temple  who  cried,  "  Hosanna  to  the 
Son  of  David,"  when  chief  priests  and  scribes  were 
scowling  and  saying,  "  Master,  forbid  them,"  and  doubt 
less  the  same  dear  Master  loves  to  hear  these  child-songs 
now  as  then. 

At  all  events,  our  little  party  were  having  a  gay  and 


126  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

festive  time  over  two  or  three  new  collections  of  Clarion, 
Golden  Chain,  Golden  Shower,  or  what  not,  of  which  Jim 
had  brought  a  pocketful  for  the  girls  to  try,  and  certainly 
the  melodies  as  they  came  up  were  bright  and  lively  and 
pretty  enough  to  stir  one's  blood  pleasantly.  In  fact, 
both  Aunt  Maria  and  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  were  content  for 
a  season  to  leave  the  door  open  and  listen. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  "  Jim  is  such  a 
pleasant,  convenient,  obliging  fellow,  and  has  done  so 
many  civil  turns  for  the  family,  that  we  quite  make  him 
at  home  here ;  we  don't  mind  him  at  all.  It's  a  pleasant 
thing,  too,  and  a  convenience,  now  the  boys  are  gone,  to 
have  some  young  man  that  one  feels  perfectly  free  with 
to  wait  on  the  girls;  and  where  there  are  so  many 
of  them,  there  's  less  danger  of  anything  particular. 
There  's  no  earthly  danger  of  Alice's  being  specially  in 
terested  in  Jim.  He  is  n't  at  all  the  person  she  would 
ever  think  seriously  of,  though  she  likes  him  as  a  friend." 

Mrs.  Wouvermans  apparently  acquiesced  for  the  time 
in  this  reasoning,  but  secretly  resolved  to  watch  appear 
ances  narrowly  this  evening,  and  if  she  saw  what  war 
ranted  the  movement  to  take  the  responsibility  of  the 
case  into  her  own  hands  forthwith.  Her  perfect  immu 
table  and  tranquil  certainty  that  she  was  the  proper  per 
son  to  manage  anything  within  the  sphere  of  her  vision 
gave  her  courage  to  go  forward  in  spite  of  the  fears  and 
remonstrances  of  any  who  might  have  claimed  that  they 
were  parties  concerned. 

Mr.  Jim  Fellows  was  one  of  those  persons  in  whom  a 
sense  of  humor  operates  as  a  subtle  lubricating  oil  through 
all  the  internal  machinery  of  the  mind,  causing  all  which 
might  otherwise  have  jarred  or  grated  to  slide  easily. 
Many  things  which  would  be  a  torture  to  more  earnest 
people  were  to  him  a  source  of  amusement.  In  fact, 
humor  was  so  far  a  leading  faculty  that  it  was  difficult  to 


AUNT  MARIA  CLEARS  HER  CONSCIENCE.      127 

keep  him  within  limits  of  propriety  and  decorum,  and 
prevent  him  from  racing  off  at  unsuitable  periods  like  a 
kitten  after  a  pin-ball,  skipping  over  all  solemnities  of 
etiquette  and  decorum.  He  had  not  been  so  long  inti 
mate  in  the  family  without  perfectly  taking  the  measure 
of  so  very  active  and  forth-putting  a  member  as  Aunt 
Maria.  He  knew  exactly — as  well  as  if  she  had  told 
him — how  she  regarded  him,  for  his  knowledge  of  char 
acter  was  not  the  result  of  study,  but  that  sort  of  clear 
sight  which  in  persons  of  quick  perceptive  organs  seems 
like  a  second  sense.  He  saw  into  persons  without  an 
effort,  and  what  he  saw  for  the  most  part  only  amused 
him. 

He  perceived  immediately  on  sitting  down  to  tea 
that  he  was  under  the  glance  of  Mrs.  Wouverman's 
watchful  and  critical  eye,  and  the  result  was  that  he  be 
came  full  and  ready  to  boil  over  with  wicked  drollery. 
With  an  apparently  grave  face,  without  passing  the  limits 
of  the  most  ceremonious  politeness  and  decorum,  he 
contrived,  by  a  thousand  fleeting  indescribable  turns 
and  sliding  intonations  and  adroit  movements  to  get  all 
the  girls  into  a  tempest  of  suppressed  gaiety.  There  are 
wicked  rogues  known  to  us  all  who  have  this  magical 
power  of  making  those  around  them  burst  out  into  indis 
creet  sallies  of  laughter, while  they  retain  the  most  edify 
ing  and  innocent  air  of  gravity.  Seated  next  to  Aunt 
Maria,  Jim  managed,  by  most  devoted  attention  and 
reverential  listening,  to  draw  from  her  a  zealous  analysis 
of  the  morning  sermon,  which  she  gave  with  the  more 
heat  and  vigor, hoping  thereby  to  reprove  the  stray  sheep 
who  had  thus  broken  boundaries. 

Her  views  of  the  danger  of  modern  speculation,  and 
her  hearty  measures  for  its  repression,  were  given  with 
an  earnestness  that  was  from  the  heart. 

"I  can't   understand  what  anybody  wants    to  have 


128  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

these  controversies  for,  and  listen  to  these  infidel  philos 
ophers.  I  never  doubt.  I  never  have  doubted.  I  don't 
think  I  have  altered  an  iota  of  my  religious  faith  since  I 
was  seven  years  old;  and  if  I  had  the  control  of  things, 
I  'd  put  a  stop  to  all  this  sort  of  fuss." 

"  You  then  would  side  with  his  Holiness,  the  Pope," 
said  Jim.  "  That's  precisely  the  ground  of  his  last  allo 
cution." 

"No,  indeed,  I  shouldn't.  I  think  Popery  is  worse 
yet — it's  terrible !  Dr.  Gushing  showed  that  this  morn 
ing,  and  it's  the  greatest  danger  of  our  day ;  and  I  think 
that  Mr.  St.  John  of  yours  is  nothing  more  than  a  decoy 
duck  to  lead  you  all  to  Rome.  I  went  up  there  once  and 
saw  'em  genuflecting,  and  turning  to  the  east,  and  burn 
ing  candles,  and  that's  all  I  want  to  know  about  them." 

"But  the  east  is  a  perfectly  harmless  point  of  the  com 
pass,"  said  Jim,  with  suavity;  "  and  though  I  don't  want 
candles  in  the  daytime  myself,  yet  I  don't  see  what  harm 
it  does  anybody  to  burn  them." 

"  Why,  that's  just  what  the  Catholics  do,"  said  Mrs. 
Wouvermans. 

"  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it!"  said  Jim,  with  a  submissive  air. 
"Mustn't  we  do  any  thing  that  Catholics  do?" 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  falling  into  the  open 
trap  with  affecting  naivete". 

"  Then  we  must  n't  pray  at  all,"  said  Jim. 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  of  course  I  did  n't  mean  that.  You  know 
what  I  mean." 

" Certainly, ma'am.  I  think  I  understand,"  said  Jim, 
while  Alice,  who  had  been  looking  reprovingly  at  him, 
led  off  the  subject  into  another  strain. 

But  Mrs.  Wouvermans  was  more  gracious  to  Jim  that 
evening  than  usual,  and  when  she  rose  to  go  home  that 
young  gentleman  offered  his  attendance,  and  was  accept 
ed  with  complacency. 


A  UNT  MARIA  CLEARS  HER  CONSCIENCE.      129 

Mrs.  Wouvermans,  in  a  general  way,  believed  in  what 
is  called  Providence.  That  is  to  say,  when  any  little 
matter  fell  out  in  a  manner  exactly  apposite  to  any  of 
her  schemes,  she  called  it  providential.  On  the  present 
occasion,  when  she  found  herself  walking  in  the  streets 
of  New  York  alone,  in  the  evening,  with  a  young  man 
who  treated  her  with  flattering  deference,  it  could  not 
but  strike  her  as  a  providential  opportunity  not  to  be 
neglected  of  fulfilling  her  long-cherished  intentions  and 
giving  a  sort  of  wholesome  check  and  caution  to  the 
youth.  So  she  began  with  infinite  adroitness  to  prepare 
the  way.  Jim,  the  while,  who  saw  perfectly  what  she  was 
aiming  at,  assisting  her  in  the  most  obliging  manner. 

After  passing  through  sundry  truisms  about  the  ne 
cessity  of  caution  and  regarding  appearances,  and  think 
ing  what  people  will  say  to  this  and  that,  she  proceeded 
to  inform  him  that  the  report  was  in  circulation  that  he 
was  engaged  to  Alice. 

"  The  report  does  me  entirely  too  much  honor,"  said 
Jim.  "But  of  course  if  Miss  Alice  isn't  disposed  to 
deny  it, I  am  not." 

"Of  course  Miss  Alice's  friends  will  deny  it,"  said 
Aunt  Maria,  decisively.  "  I  merely  mentioned  it  to  you 
that  you  may  see  the  need  of  caution.  You  know,  of 
course,  Mr.  Fellows,  that  such  reports  stand  in  the  way 
of  others  who  might  be  disposed — well,  you  understand." 

"  Oh,  perfectly,  exactly,  quite  so,"  said  Jim,  who  could 
be  profuse  of  his  phrases  on  occasion,  "and  I'm  ex 
tremely  obliged  to  you  for  this  suggestion ;  undoubtedly 
your  great  experience  and  knowledge  of  the  ways  of  so 
ciety  will  show  you  the  exact  way  to  deal  with  such 
things." 

"You  see,"  pursued  Mrs.  Wouvermans,  in  a  con 
fidential  tone,  "  there  is  at  present  a  person  every  way 
admirable  and  desirable,  who  is  thinking  very  seriously 


130  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

of  Alice ;  it 's  quite  confidential,  you  know ;  but  you  must 
be  aware — of  the  danger." 

"I  perceive — a  blight  of  the  poor  fellow's  budding 
hopes  and  early  affections,"  said  Jim,  fluently;  "well, 
though  of  course  the  very  suggestion  of  such  a  report  in 
regard  to  me  is  flattery  far  beyond  my  deserts,  so  that  I 
can  't  be  annoyed  by  it,  still  I  should  be  profoundly  sorry 
to  have  it  occasion  any  trouble  to  Miss  Alice." 

"  I  felt  sure  that  you  would  n't  be  offended  with  me 
for  speaking  so  very  plainly.  I  hope  you  '11  keep  it  en 
tirely  private." 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Jim,  with  the  most  cheerful 
goodwill.  "  When  ladies  with  your  tact  and  skill  in  hu 
man  nature  talk  to  us  young  fellows  you  never  give  offense. 
We  take  your  frankness  as  a  favor." 

Mrs.  Wouvermans  smiled  with  honest  pride.  Had 
she  not  been  warned  against  talking  to  this  youth  as 
something  that  was  going  to  be  of  most  explosive  ten 
dency?  How  little  could  Nellie,  or  Eva,  or  any  of  them, 
appreciate  her  masterly  skill !  She  really  felt  in  her  heart 
disposed  to  regret  that  so  docile  a  pupil,  one  so  appre 
ciative  of  her  superior  abilities,  was  not  a  desirable 
matrimonial  parti.  Had  Jim  been  a  youth  of  fortune 
she  felt  that  she  could  have  held  up  both  hands  for  him. 

"  He  really  is  agreeable,"  was  her  thought,  as  she  shut 
the  door  upon  him. 


THE  DOMESTIC   ARTIST. 

'A  spray  of  ivy  that  was  stretching  towards  the  windoiv  had  been  drawn 
back,  and  forced  to  wreathe  itself  around  a  picture." — p.  131. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
WHY  CAN'T  THEY  LET  us  ALONE? 

HARRY  went  out  to  his  office,  and  Eva  commenced 
the  morning  labors  of  a  young  housekeeper. 

What  are  they  ?  Something  in  their  way  as  airy  and 
pleasant  as  the  light  touches  and  arrangements  which  Eve 
gave  to  her  bower  in  Paradise — gathering -up  stray  rose- 
leaves,  tying  up  a  lily  that  the  rain  has  bent,  looping  a 
honeysuckle  in  a  more  graceful  festoon,  and  meditating 
the  while  whether  she  shall  have  oranges  and  figs  and 
grapes,  or  guavas  and  pineapples,  for  her  first  course  at 
dinner. 

Such,  according  to  Father  Milton,  were  the  orna 
mental  duties  of  the  first  wife,  while  her  husband  went 
out  to  his  office  in  some  distant  part  of  Eden. 

But  Eden  still  exists  whenever  two  young  lovers  set 
up  housekeeping,  even  in  prosaic  New  York;  only  our 
modern  Eves  wear  jaunty  little  morning  caps  and  fasci 
nating  wrappers  and  slippers,  with  coquettish  butterfly 
bows.  Eva's  morning  duties  consisted  in  asking  Mary 
what  they  had  better  have  for  dinner,  giving  here  and 
there  a  peep  into  the  pantry,  re-arranging  the  flower 
vases,  and  flecking  the  dust  from  her  pictures  and  statu 
ettes  with  a  gay  and  glancing  brush  of  peacock's  feathers. 
Sometimes  the  morning  arrangements  included  quite  a 
change ;  as,  this  particular  day,  when,  on  mature  consjfl- 
eration,  a  spray  of  ivy  that  was  stretching  towards  the 
window  had  been  drawn  back  and  forced  to  wreathe  itself 
around  a  picture,  and  a  spray  of  nasturtium,  gemmed 


132  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

with  half-opened  golden  buds,  had  been  trained  in  its 
place  in  the  window. 

One  may  think  this  a  very  simple  matter,  but  whoever 
knows  all  the  resistance  which  the  forces  of  matter  and 
the  laws  of  gravitation  make  to  the  simplest  improvement 
in  one's  parlor, will  know  better. 

It  required  a  scaffolding  made  of  a  chair  and  an  otto 
man  to  reach  the  top  of  the  pictures,  and  a  tack-hammer 
and  little  tacks.  Then  the  precise  air  of  arrangement 
and  exact  position  had  to  be  studied  from  below,  after 
the  tacks  were  driven,  and  that  necessitated  two  or  three 
descents  from  the  perch  to  review,  and  the  tumbling  of 
the  ottoman  to  the  floor,  and  the  calling  of  Mary  in  to 
help,  and  to  hold  the  ottoman  firm  while  the  persevering 
little  artist  finished  her  work.  It  is  by  ups  and  downs 
like  these,  by  daily  labor  of  modern  Eves,  each  in  their 
little  paradises,  O  ye  Adams !  that  your  houses  have  that 
"just  right "  look  that  makes  you  think  of  them  all  day, 
and  long  to  come  back  to  them  at  night. 

"  Somehow  or  other,"  you  say,  "  I  do  n't  know  how  it 
is,  my  wife's  things  have  a  certain  air;  her  vines  grow 
just  as  they  ought  to,  her  flowers  blossom  in  just  the 
right  places,  and  her  parlors  always  look  pleasant." 
You  do  n't  know  how  many  periods  of  grave  considera 
tion,  how  many  climbings  on  chairs  and  ottomans,  how- 
many  doings  and  undoings  and  shiftings  and  changes 
produce  the  appearance  that  charms  you.  Most  people 
think  that  flower  vases  are  very  simple  affairs ;  but  the 
keeping  of  parlors  dressed  with  flowers  is  daily  work  for 
an  hour  or  two  for  any  woman.  Nor  is  it  work  in  vain. 
No  altar  is  holier  than  the  home  altar,  and  the  flowers 
tj^t  adorn  it  are  sacred. 

Eva  was  sitting,  a  little  tired  with  her  strenuous  exer 
tions,  contemplating  her  finished  arrangement  with  satis 
faction,  when  the  door-bell  rang,  and  Alice  came  in. 


WHY  CAN' T  THE  Y  LET  US  ALONE ?  133 

"  Why,  Allie,  dear,  how  nice  of  you  to  be  down  here 
so  early !  I  was  just  wanting  somebody  to  show  my 
changes  to.  Look  there.  See  how  I  've  looped  that  ivy 
round  mother's  picture;  is  n't  it  sweet?"  and  Eva  caress 
ingly  arranged  a  leaf  or  two  to  suit  her. 

"Charming!"  said  Alice,  but  with  rather  an  abstract 
ed,  preoccupied  tone. 

9  "  And  look  at  this  nasturtium ;  it 's  full  of  buds. 
See,  the  yellow  is  beginning  to  show.  I  've  fastened  it 
in  a  wreath  around  the  window,  so  that  the  sun  will  shine 
through  the  blossoms." 

"  It 's  beautiful,"  said  Alice,  still  absently  and  ner 
vously  playing  with  her  bonnet  strings. 

"  Why,  darling,  what  's  the  matter?"  said  Eva,  sud 
denly  noticing  signs  of  some  unusual  feeling.  "What 
ails  you  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Alice,  hastily  untying  her  bonnet  strings 
and  throwing  it  down  on  the  sofa,  "  I  've  come  up  to  talk 
with  you.  I  hope,"  she  said,  flushing  crimson  with  vex 
ation,  "  that  Aunt  Maria  is  satisfied  now  ;  she  is  the  most 
exasperating  woman  I  ever  knew  or  heard  of!" 

"  Dear  me,  Allie,  what  has  she  done  now?" 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?  Last  Sunday  she  came 
to  our  house  to  tea,  drawn  up  in  martial  array  and  ready 
to  attack  us  all  for  not  going  to  the  old  church — that 
stupid,  dead  old  church,  where  people  do  nothing  but 
doze  and  wake  up  to  criticise  each  other's  bonnets — but 
you  really  would  think  to  hear  Aunt  Maria  talk  that  there 
was  a  second  Babylonian  captivity  or  something  of  that 
sort  coming  on,  and  we  were  getting  it  up.  You  see,  Dr. 
Gushing  has  got  excited  because  some  of  the  girls  are 
going  up  to  the  mission  church,  and  it 's  led  him  to  an 
unwonted  exertion ;  and  Aunt  Maria  quite  waked  up  and 
considers  herself  an  apostle  and  prophet.  I  wish  you 
could  have  heard  her  talk.  It's  enough  to  make  any 


134  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

cause  ridiculous  to  have  one  defend  it  as  she  did. 
You  ought  to  have  heard  that  witch  of  a  Jim  Fellows  ar 
guing  with  her  and  respectfully  leading  her  into  all  sorts 
of  contradictions  and  absurdities  till  I  stopped  him.  I 
really  would  n't  let  him  lead  her  to  make  such  a  fool  of 
herself." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  that 's  all,  Allie,  I  don't  think  you  need 
to  trouble  your  head,"  said  Eva.  "Aunt  Maria,  of 
course,  will  hold  on  to  her  old  notions,  and  her  style  of 
argument  never  was  very  consecutive." 

"But  that  isn't  all.  Oh,  you  may  be  sure  I  didn't 
care  for  what  she  said  about  the  church.  I  can  have  my 
opinion  and  she  hers,  on  that  point." 

"  Well,  then,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"  Well,  if  you  '11  believe  me,  she  has  actually  under 
taken  to  tutor  Jim  Fellows  in  relation  to  his  intimacy 
with  me." 

"Oh,  Allie,"  groaned  Eva,  "has  she  done  that?  I 
begged  and  implored  her  to  let  that  matter  alone." 

"  Then  she  's  been  talking  with  you,  too !  and  I  won 
der  how  many  more,"  said  Alice  in  tones  of  disgust. 

"  Yes,  she  did  talk  with  me  in  her  usual  busy,  imper 
ative  way,  and  told  me  all  that  Mrs.  Thus-and-so  and 
Mr.  This-and-that  said — but  people  are  always  saying 
things,  and  if  they  don't  say  one  thing  they  will  another. 
I  tried  to  persuade  her  to  let  it  alone,  but  she  seemed  to 
think  you  must  be  talked  with ;  so  I  finally  told  her  that 
if  she  'd  leave  it  to  me  I  would  say  all  that  was  necessa 
ry.  I  did  mean  to  say  something,  but  I  didn't  want  to 
trouble  you.  I  thought  there  was  no  hurry." 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Alice,  "  Jim  went  home  with 
her  that  night,  and  I  suppose  she  thought  the  opportu 
nity  too  good  to  be  neglected.  I  do  n't  know  just  what 
she  said  to  him,  but  I  know  it  was  about  me." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?     Did  Jim  tell  you  ?" 


WHY  CAN'T  THEY  LET  US  ALONE?          135 

"  No,  indeed ;  catch  him  telling  me  !  He  knows  too 
much  for  that.  Aunt  Maria  let  it  out  herself." 

"Let  it  out  herself?" 

"  Yes ;  she  blundered  into  it  before  she  knew  what 
she  was  saying,  and  betrayed  herself ;  and  then,  when  I 
questioned  her,  she  had  to  tell  me." 

"How  came  she  to  commit  herself  so?" 

"  It  was  just  this.  You  know  the  little  party  Aunt 
Maria  had  Tuesday  evening, — the  one  you  couldn't  come 
to  on  account  of  that  Stephens  engagement." 

"Yes;  what  of  it?" 

"I  really  suspect  that  was  all  got  up  in  the  inter 
est  of  one  of  Aunt  Maria's  schemes  to  bring  me  and 
that  John  Davenport  together.  At  any  rate,  there  he 
was,  and  his  sister ;  and  really,  Eva,  his  treatment  of  me 
was  so  marked  that  it  was  quite  disagreeable.  Why,  the 
man  seemed  really  infatuated.  His  manner  was  so  that 
everybody  remarked  it ;  and  the  colder  and  more  distant 
I  grew, the  more  it  increased.  Aunt  Maria  was  delighted. 
She  plumed  herself  and  rushed  round  in  the  most  sat 
isfied  way,  while  I  was  only  provoked.  I  saw  he  was 
going  to  ask  to  wait  on  me  home,  and  so  I  fell  back  on  a 
standing  engagement  that  I  have  with  Jim,  to  go  with 
me  whenever  anybody  asks  that  I  do  n't  want  to  go  with. 
Jim  and  I  have  always  had  that  understanding  in  dancing 
and  at  parties,  so  that  we  can  keep  clear  of  disagreeable 
partners  and  people.  I  was  determined  I  would  n't  walk 
home  with  that  man,  and  I  told  Jim  privately  that  he 
was  to  be  on  duty,  and  he  took  the  hint  in  a  minute.  So 
when  Mr.  Davenport  wound  up  his  attentions  by  asking 
if  he  should  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  me  home,  I  told 
him  with  great  satisfaction  that  I  was  engaged,  and  off  I 
walked  with  Jim.  The  girls  were  in  a  perfect  state  of 
giggle,  to  see  Aunt1  Maria's  indignation." 

"And  so  really  you  don't  like  this  Mr.  Davenport?77 


136  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Like  him  !  Indeeed  I  don't.  In  the  first  place,  it 
isn  't  a  year  yet  since  his  wife  died ;  and  everybody  was 
pitying  him.  He  could  hardly  be  kept  alive,  and  fainted 
away,  and  had  to  have  hot  bottles  at  his  feet,  and  all 
that.  All  the  old  ladies  were  rolling  up  their  eyes  ;  such 
a  sighing  and  sympathizing  for  John  Davenport;  and 
now,  here  he  is !" 

"  Poor  man!"  said  Eva,  " I  suppose  he  is  lonesome." 

"  Yes.  I  suppose,  as  Irving  says,  the  greatest  com 
pliment  he  can  pay  to  his  former  wife  is  to  display  an 
eagerness  for  another ;  but  his  attentions  are  simply  dis 
agreeable  to  me." 

"  After  all,  the  worst  crime  you  allege  seems  to  be 
that  he  is  too  sensitive  to  your  attractions." 

"  Yes  ;  and  shows  it  in  a  very  silly  way — making  me 
an  object  of  remark !  He  may  be  very  nice  and  very 
worthy,  and  all  that;  but  in  any  such  relation  as  that 
he  is  so  unpleasant  to  me!  I  can't  bear  him,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  be  talked  or  maneuvered  into  anything  that 
might  commit  me  to  even  consider  him.  I  remember 
the  trouble  you  had  for  being  persuaded  to  let  Wat  Syd 
ney  dangle  after  you.  I  will  not  have  anything  of  the 
kind.  I  am  a  decided  young  woman,  and  know  my  own 
mind." 

"Well,  how  did  you  learn  about  Aunt  Maria  and 
Jim  ?" 

"How?  Oh,  well,  the  next  day  comes  Aunt  Maria 
to  talk  with  Mamma,  who  wasn't  there,  by  the  bye  ;  Papa 
hates  so  to  go  out  that  she  has  got  to  staying  at  home 
with  him.  But  the  next  day  came  an  exaggerated  pict 
ure  of  my  triumphs  to  Mamma  and  a  lecture  to  me  on 
my  bad  behavior.  The  worst  of  all,  she  said,  was  the 
very  marked  thing  of  my  going  home  with  Jim  ;  and  in 
her  heat  she  let  out  that  she  had  spoken  to  him  and 
warned  him  of  what  folks  would  think  and  say  of  such 


WHY  CAN'T  THEY  LET  US  ALONE  1  137 

appearances.  I  was  angry  then,  and  I  expressed  my 
mind  freely  to  Aunt  Maria,  and  we  had  a  downright 
quarrel.  I  said  things  I  ought  not  to  say,  just  as  one 
always  does,  and — now  isn't  it  disagreeable?  Isn't  it 
dreadful?"  said  Alice,  with  the  earnestness  of  a  young 
girl  whose  whole  nature  goes  into  her  first  trouble. 
"  Nothing  could  be  nicer  and  more  just  what  a  thing 
ought  to  be  than  my  friendship  with  Jim.  I  have  influ 
ence  over  him  and  I  can  do  him  good,  and  I  enjoy 
his  society,  and  the  kind  of  easy,  frank  understanding 
that  there  is  between  us,  that  we  can  say  any  thing  to 
each  other ;  and  what  business  is  it  of  anybody's  ?  It's 
our  own  affair,  and  no  one's  else." 

"Certainly  it  is,"  said  Eva,  sympathizingly. 

"And  Aunt  Maria  said  that  folks  were  saying  that  if 
we  were  n't  engaged  we  ought  to  be.  What  a  hateful 
thing  to  say !  As  if  there  were  any  impropriety  in  a  friend 
ship  between  a  gentleman,  and  a  lady.  Why  may  not  a 
gentleman  and  a  lady  have  a  special  friendship  as  well 
one  lady  with  another,  or  one  gentleman  with  another  ? 
I  don't  see." 

"  Neither  do  I,"  said  Eva,  responsively. 

"  Now,"  said  Alice,  "  the  suggestion  of  marriage  and 
all  that  is  disagreeable  to  me.  I'm  thinking  of  nothing 
of  the  kind.  I  like  Jim.  Well,  I  don't  mind  saying  to 
you,  Eva,  who  can  understand  me,  that  I  love  him,  in  a 
sort  of  way.  I  am  interested  for  him.  I  know  his  good 
points  and  I  know  his  faults,  and  I'm  at  liberty  to  speak 
to  him  with  perfect  freedom,  and  I  think  there  is  nothing 
so  good  for  a  young  man  as  such  a  friendship.  We  girls, 
you  know,  dear,  can  do  a  great  deal  for  young  men  if 
we  try.  We  are  not  tempted  as  they  are ;  we  have  not 
their  hard  places  and  trials  to  walk  through,  and  we  can 
make  allowances,  and  they  will  receive  things  from  us 
that  they  would  n't  from  any  one  else,  and  they  show  us 


138  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

just  the  best  side  of  their  nature,  which  is  the  truest  side 
of  everybody." 

"Certainly,  Alice.  Harry  was  saying  only  a  little 
while  ago  that  your  influence  would  make  a  man  of  Jim ; 
and  I  certainly  think  he  has  wonderfully  improved  of 
late — he  seems  more  serious." 

"We've  learned  to  know  him  better;  that's  all,"  said 
Alice.  "Young  men  rattle  and  talk  idly  to  girls  when 
they  don't  feel  acquainted  and  haven't  real  confidence 
in  their  friendship,  just  as  a  sort  of  blind.  They  don't 
dare  to  express  their  real,  deepest  feelings." 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  that  Jim  had  any,"  said  Eva, 
incautiously. 

"Why,  Eva,  how  unjust  you  are  to  Jim  !"  said  Alice, 
with  flushing  cheeks.  "  I  should  n't  have  thought  it 
of  you ;  so  many  kind  things  as  Jim  has  done  for  us 
all!" 

"My  darling,  I  beg  Jim's  pardon  with  all  my 
heart,"  said  Eva,  laughing  to  herself  at  this  earnest 
championship.  "I  didn't  mean  quite  what  I  said,  but 
you  know,  Alice,  his  sort  of  wild  rattling  way  of  talking 
over  all  subjects,  so  that  you  can't  tell  which  is  jest  and 
which  is  earnest." 

"  Oh  !  /  can  always  tell,"  said  Alice.  "  I  always  can 
make  him  come  down  to  the  earnest  part  of  him,  and 
Jim  has,  after  all,  really  good,  sensible  ideas  of  life  and 
aspirations  after  what  is  right  and  true.  He  has  the 
temptation  of  having  been  a  sort  of  spoiled  child.  Peo 
ple  do  so  like  a  laugh  that  they  set  him  on  and  encour 
age  him  in  saying  all  sorts  of  things  he  ought  not.  Peo 
ple  have  very  little  principle  about  that.  So  that  anyone 
amuses  them,  they  never  consider  whether  he  does  right 
to  talk  as  he  does ;  they  '11  set  Jim  up  to  talk  because  it 
amuses  them,  and  then  go  away  and  say  what  a  rattle  he 
is,  and  that  he  has  no  real  principle  or  feeling.  They 


WHY  CAN'T  THEY  LET  US  ALONE?          139 

just  make  a  buffoon  of  him,  and  they  know  nothing 
about  the  best  part  of  him." 

"Well,  Alice,  I  dare  say  you  do  see  more  of  Jim's 
real  nature  than  any  of  us." 

"  Oh  !  indeed  I  do ;  and  I  know  how  to  appeal  to  it. 
Even  when  I  can't  help  laughing  at  things  he  ought  not 
to  say — and  sometimes  they  are  so  droll  I  can't  help  it 
— afterwards  I  have  my  say  and  tell  him  really  and  sober 
ly  just  what  I  think,  and  you  Ve  no  idea  how  beautifully 
he  takes  it.  Oh,  Jim  really  is  good  at  heart,  there 's  no 
doubt  about  that." 

"  Do  you  think  Aunt  Maria's  meddling  will  make 
trouble  between  you  ?" 

"  No !  only  that  it 's  an  awkward,  disagreeable  thing 
to  speak  of;  but  I  shall  speak  to  Jim  about  it  and  let 
him  understand,  if  he  doesn't  now,  just  what  Aunt 
Maria  is,  and  that  he  mustn't  mind  anything  she  says. 
I  feel  rather  better,  now  I  Ve  relieved  my  mind  to  you, 
and  perhaps  shall  have  more  charity  for  Aunt  Maria." 

"After  all,  poor  soul,"  said  Eva,  "it's  her  love  for 
us  that  leads  her  to  vex  us  in  all  these  ways.  She  can't 
help  planning  and  fussing  and  lying  awake  nights  for  us. 
She  failed  in  getting  a  splendid  marriage  for  me,  and 
now  she  's  like  Bruce's  spider,  up  and  at  her  web  again 
weaving  a  destiny  for  you.  It 's  in  her  to  be  active ; 
she  has  no  children;  her  house  don't  half  satisfy  her  as 
a  field  of  enterprise,  and  she,  of  course,  is  taking  care 
of  Mamma  and  our  family.  If  Mamma  had  not  been 
just  the  gentle,  lovely,  yielding  woman  she  is,  Aunt  Maria 
never  would  have  got  such  headway  in  the  family  and 
taken  such  airs  about  us." 

"  She  perfectly  tyrannizes  over  Mamma,"  said  Alice. 
"  She 's  always  coming  up  to  lecture  her  for  not  doing 
this,  that,  or  the  other  thing.  Now  all  this  talk  about 
our  going  to  Mr.  St.  John's  church ; — poor,  dear,  little 


140  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Mamma  is  as  willing  to  let  us  do  as  we  please  as  the 
flowers  are  to  blossom,  and  then  Aunt  Maria  talks  as  if 
she  were  abetting  a  conspiracy  against  the  church.  I 
know  that  we  are  all  living  more  serious,  earnest  lives 
for  Mr.  St.  John's  influence.  It  may  be  that  he  is 
going  too  far  in  certain  directions ;  it  may  be  that  in  the 
long  run  such  things  tend  to  dangerous  extremes,  but 
I  do  n't  see  any  real  harm  in  them  so  far,  and  I  find  real 
good." 

"Well,  you  know,  dear,  that  Harry  isn't  of  our 
church — he  is  a  Congregationalist — but  his  theory  is 
that  Christian  people  should  join  with  any  other  Chris 
tian  people  who  they  see  are  really  working  in  earnest  to 
do  good.  This  church  is  near  by  us,  where  we  can  con 
veniently  go,  and  as  I  have  my  house  to  attend  to  and 
am  not  strong  you  know,  that  is  quite  a  consideration. 
I  know  Harry  do  n't  agree  with  Mr.  St.  John  at  all  about 
his  ideas  of  the  church,  and  he  thinks  he  carries  some 
of  his  ceremonies  too  far;  but,  on  the  whole,  he  really 
is  doing  a  great  deal  of  practical  good,  and  Harry  is 
willing  to  help  him.  I  think  it 's  just  lovely  in  Harry  to 
do  so.  It  is  real  liberality." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Alice,  "  that  Mr.  St.  John  were  a  little 
freer  in  his  way.  There  is  a  sort  of  solemnity  about  him 
that  is  depressing,  and  it  seems  to  set  Jim  oif  in  a  spirit 
of  contradiction.  He  says  Mr.  St.  John  stirs  up  the  evil 
within  him,  and  makes  him  long  to  break  over  bounds 
and  say  something  wicked,  just  to  shock  him." 

"  I  've  had  that  desire  to  shock  very  proper  people 
in  the  days  of  my  youth,"  said  Eva.  "I  don't  know 
what  it  comes  from." 

"I  think,"  said  Alice,  "that,  to  be  sure,  this  is  an 
irreverent  age,  and  New  York  is  an  irreverent  place ;  but 
yet  I  think  people  may  carry  the  outside  air  of  rever 
ence  too  far.  Do  n't  you  ?  They  impose  a  sort  of  con- 


WH Y  CAN'T  THE  Y  LET  US  ALONE ?          141 

straint  on  everybody  around  them  that  keeps  them  from 
knowing  the  people  they  associate  with.  Mr.  St.  John, 
for  instance,  knows  nothing  about  Jim,  he  never  acts 
himself  out  before  him." 

"  Oh,  dear  me,"  said  Eva,  "  fancy  what  he  would  think 
if  he  should  see  Jim  in  one  of  his. frolics." 

"  And  yet,  Jim,  in  his  queer  way,  appreciates  Mr.  St. 
John,"  said  Alice.  "  He  says  he  's  *  a  brick  '  after  all,  by 
which  he  means  that  he  does  good,  honest  work ;  and  Jim 
has  been  enough  around  among  the  poor  of  New  York, 
in  his  quality  of  newspaper  writer,  to  know  when  a  man 
does  good  among  them.  If  Mr.  St.  John  only  could 
learn  to  be  indulgent  to  other  people's  natures  he  might 
do  a  great  deal  for  Jim." 

"  I  rather  think  Jim  will  be  your  peculiar  parish  for 
some  time  to  come,"  said  Eva  with  a  smile,  "  but  Harry 
and  I  are  projecting  schemes  to  draw  Mr.  St.  John  into 
more  general  society.  That 's  one  of  the  things  we  are 
going  to  try  to  do  in  our  *  evenings.'  I  do  n't  believe  he 
has  ever  been  into  general  society  at  all ;  he  ought  to 
hear  the  talk  of  his  day — he  talks  and  feels  and  thinks 
more  in  the  past  than  the  present ;  he  's  all  the  while 
trying  to  restore  an  ideal  age  of  reverence  and  devotion, 
but  he  ought  to  know  the  real  age  he  lives  in.  If  we 
could  get  him  to  coming  to  our  house  every  week,  and 
meeting  real  live  men,  women  and  girls  of  to-day  and 
entering  a  little  into  their  life,  it  would  do  him  good." 

"  I  suppose  he  'd  be  afraid  of  any  indulgence !" 

"  We  must  not  put  it  to  him  as  an  indulgence,  but  a 
good  hard  duty,"  said  Eva;  "we  should  never  catch  him 
with  an  indulgence." 

"When  are  you  going  to  begin?" 

"  I  Ve  been  talking  with  Mary  about  it,  and  I  rather 
think  I  shall  take  next  Thursday  for  the  first.  I  shall 
depend  on  you  and  the  girls  to  help  me  keep  the  thing 


142  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

balanced,  and  going  on  just  right.  Jim  must  be  moder 
ated,  and  kept  from  coming  out  too  strong,  and  every 
body  must  be  made  to  have  a  good  time,  so  that  they  '11 
want  to  come  again.  You  see  we  want  to  get  them  to 
coming  every  week,  so  that  they  will  all  know  one  an 
other  by-and-by,  and  get  a  sort  of  home  feeling  about 
our  rooms;  such  a  thing  is  possible,  I  think." 

The  conversation  now  meandered  off  into  domestic 
details,  not  further  traceable  in  this  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

OUR  "  EVENING  "   PROJECTED. 

«  T  T  7ELL,  Harry,"  said  Eva,  when  they  were  seated 

VV  at  dinner,  "Alice  was  up  at  lunch  with  me  this 
morning,  in  such  a  state  !  It  seems,  after  all,  Aunt  Maria 
could  not  contain  her  zeal  for  management,  and  has  been 
having  an  admonitory  talk  with  Jim  Fellows  about  his 
intimacy  with  Alice." 

"  Now,  I  declare  that  goes  beyond  me,"  said  Harry, 
laying  down  his  knife  and  fork.  "  That  woman's  imper 
tinence  is  really  stupendous.  It  amounts  to  the  sublime." 

"  Does  n't  it  ?  Alice  was  in  such  a  state  about  it ; 
but  we  talked  the  matter  down  into  calmness.  Still, 
Harry,  I  'm  pretty  certain  that  Alice  is  more  seriously  in 
terested  in  Jim  than  she  knows  of.  Of  course  she  thinks 
it 's  all  friendship,  but  she  is  so  sensitive  about  him,  and 
if  you  make  even  the  shadow  of  a  criticism  she  flames 
up  and  defends  him.  You  ought  to  see." 

"  Grave  symptoms,"  said  Harry. 

"But  as  she  says  she  is  not  thinking  nor  .wanting  to 
think  of  marriage — " 

"  Any  more  than  a  certain  other  young  lady  was,  with 
whom  I  cultivated  a  friendship  some  time  ago,"  said 
Harry,  laughing. 

"  Just  so,"  said  Eva  ;  "  I  plume  myself  on  my  forbear 
ance  in  listening  gravely  to  Alice  and  not  putting  in  any 
remarks ;  but  I  remembered  old  times  and  had  my  sus 
picions.  We  thought  it  was  friendship,  did  n't  we,  Har 
ry?  And  I  used  to  be  downright  angry  if  anybody 
suggested  anything  else.  Now  I  think  Allie's  friendship 


144  ^£  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

for  Jim  is  getting  to  be  of  the  same  kind.  Oh,  she 
knows  him  so  well !  and  she  understands  him  so  perfect 
ly  !  and  she  has  so  much  influence  over  him !  and  they 
have  such  perfect  comprehension  of  each  other!  and 
as  to  his  faults,  oh,  she  understands  all  about  them ! 
But,  mind  you,  nobody  must  criticise  him  but  herself — 
that 's  quite  evident.  I  did  make  a  blundering  remark 
or  so;  but  I  found  it  wasn't  at  all  the  thing,  and  I  had 
to  beat  a  rapid  retreat,  I  assure  you." 

"Well,  poor  girl!  I  hope  you  managed  to  console 
her." 

"  Oh,  I  was  sympathetic  and  indignant,  and  after  she 
had  poured  out  her  griefs  she  felt  better ;  and  then  I  put 
in  a  soothing  word  for  Aunt  Maria,  poor  woman,  who  is 
only  monomaniac  on  managing  our  affairs." 

"  Yes,"  said  Harry,  "  forgiveness  of  enemies  used  to 
be  the  ultima  thule  of  virtue ;  but  I  rather  think  it  will 
have  to  be  forgiveness  of  friends.  I  call  the  man  a  per 
fect  Christian  that  can  always  forgive  his  friends." 

"  The  fact  is,  Aunt  Maria  ought  to  have  had  a  great 
family  of  her  own — twelve  or  thirteen,  to  say  the  least. 
If  Providence  had  vouchsafed  her  eight  or  nine  ramp 
ing,  roaring  boys,  and  a  sprinkling  of  girls,  she  would 
have  been  a  splendid  woman  and  we  should  have  had 
better  times." 

"  She  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  story  of  the  persistent 
broomstick  that  would  fetch  water,"  said  Harry;  "we 
are  likely  to  be  drowned  out  by  her." 

"  Well,  we  can  accept  her  for  a  whetstone  to  sharpen 
up  our  Christian  graces  on,"  said  Eva.  "  So,  let  her  go. 
I  was  talking  over  our  projected  evening  with  Alice,  and 
we  spent  some  time  discussing  that." 

"  When  are  you  going  to  begin  ?"  said  Henry.  "  *  Well 
begun  is  half  done,'  you  know." 

Said  Eva,  "  I  've  been  thinking  over  what  day  is  best, 


OUR  "EVENING"  PROJECTED.  145 

and  talking  about  it  with  Mary.  Now,  we  can't  have  it 
Monday,  there  's  the  washing,  you  know ;  and  Tuesday 
and  Wednesday  come  baking  and  ironing." 

"Well,  then,  what  happens  Thursday?" 

"  Well,  then,  it's  precisely  Thursday  that  Mary  and  I 
agreed  on.  We  both  made  up  our  minds  that  it  was  the 
right  day.  One  would  n't  want  it  on  Friday,  you  know, 
and  Saturday  is  too  late ;  besides,  Mr.  St.  John  never 
goes  out  Saturday  evenings." 

"  But  what's  the  objection  to  Friday  ?" 

"Oh,  the  unlucky  day.  Mary  would  n't  hear  of  be 
ginning  anything  on  Friday,  you  know.  Then,  besides, 
Mr.  St.  John,  I  suspect,  fasts  every  Friday.  He  never 
told  me  so,  of  course,  but  they  say  he  does ;  at  all  events, 
I'm  sure  he  would  n't  come  of  a  Friday  evening,  and  I 
want  to  be  sure  and  have  him,  of  all  people.  Now,  you 
see,  I've  planned  it  all  beautifully.  I'm  going  to  have  a 
nice,  pretty  little  tea-table  in  one  corner,  with  a  vase  of 
flowers  on  it,  and  I  shall  sit  and  make  tea.  That  breaks 
the  stiffness,  you  know.  People  talk  first  about  the  tea 
and  the  china,  and  whether  they  take  cream  and  sugar, 
and  so  on,  and  the  gentlemen  help  the  ladies.  Then 
Mary  will  make  those  delicate  little  biscuits  of  hers 
and  her  charming  sponge-cake.  It's  going  to  be  per 
fectly  quiet,  you  see — from  half-past  seven  till  eleven — 
early  hours  and  simple  fare,  *  feast  of  reason  and  flow 
of  soul.' ' 

"Quite  pastoral  and  Arcadian,"  said  Harry.  "When 
we  get  it  going  it  will  be  the  ideal  of  social  life.  No 
fuss,  no  noise  ;  all  the  quiet  of  home  life  with  all  the 
variety  of  company;  people  seeing  each  other  till  they 
get  really  intimate  and  have  a  genuine  interest  in  meet 
ing  each  other ;  not  a  mere  outside,  wild  beast  show,  as 
it  is  when  people  go  to  parties  to  gaze  at  other  people 
and  see  how  they  look  in  war-paint." 
G 


146  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"I  feel  a  little  nervous  at  first,"  said  Eva;  "getting 
people  together  that  are  so  diametrically  opposed  to  each 
other  as  Dr.  Campbell  and  Mr.  St.  John,  for  instance. 
I'm  afraid  Dr.  Campbell  will  come  out  with  some  of  his 
terribly  free  speaking,  and  then  Mr.  St.  John  will  be  so 
shocked  and  distressed." 

"  Then  Mr.  St.  John  must  get  over  being  shocked 
and  distressed.  Mr.  St.  John  needs  Dr.  Campbell,"  said 
Harry.  "  He  is  precisely  the  man  he  ought  to  meet,  and 
Dr.  Campbell  needs  Mr.  St.  John.  The  two  men  are 
intended  to  help  each  other :  each  has  what  the  other 
wants,  and  they  ought  to  be  intimate." 

"  But  you  see,  Dr.  Campbell  is  such  a  dreadful  un 
believer !" 

"  In  a  certain  way  he  is  no  more  an  unbeliever  than 
Mr.  St.  John.  Dr.  Campbell  is  utterly  ignorant  of  the 
higher  facts  of  moral  consciousness — of  prayer  and  com 
munion  with  God — and  therefore  he  doesn't  believe  in 
them.  St.  John  is  equally  ignorant  of  some  of  the  most 
important  facts  of  the  body  he  inhabits.  He  does  not 
believe  in  them — ignores  them." 

"  Oh,  but  now,  Harry,  I  didn't  think  that  of  you— 
that  you  could  put  the  truths  of  the  body  on  a  level 
with  the  truths  of  the  soul." 

"  Bless  you,  darling,  since  the  Maker  has  been  pleased 
to  make  the  soul  so  dependent  on  the  body,  how  can  I 
help  it  ?  Why,  just  see  here  ;  come  to  this  very  problem 
of  saving  a  soul,  which  is  a  minister's  work.  I  insist 
there  are  cases  where  Dr.  Campbell  can  do  more  towards 
it  than  Mr.  St.  John.  He  was  quoting  to  me  only  yes 
terday  a  passage  from  Dr.  Wigan,  where  he  says,  '  I 
firmly  believe  I  have  more  than  once  changed  the  moral 
character  of  a  boy  by  leeches  applied  to  the  inside  of 
his  nose.'  " 

"Why,  Harry,  that  sounds  almost  shocking." 


OUR  "EVENING"  PROJECTED.  147 

"  Yet  it's  a  fact — a  physiological  fact — that  some  of 
the  worst  vices  come  through  a  disordered  body,  and 
can  be  cured  only  by  curing  the  body.  So  long  as  we 
are  in  this  mortal  state,  our  souls  have  got  to  be  saved 
in  our  bodies  and  by  the  laws  of  our  bodies ;  and  a  doc 
tor  who  understands  them  will  do  more  than  a  minister 
who  doesn't.  Why,  just  look  at  poor  Bolton.  The 
trouble  that  he  dreads,  the  fear  that  blasts  his  life,  that 
makes  him  afraid  to  marry,  is  a  disease  of  the  body. 
Fasting,  prayer,  sacraments,  couldn't  keep  off  an  acute 
attack  of  dipsomania  ;  but  a  doctor  might." 

"  Oh,  Harry,  do  you  think  so  ?  Well,  I  must  say  I  do 
think  Mr.  St.  John  is  as  ignorant  as  a  child  about  such 
matters,  if  I  may  judge  from  the  way  he  goes  on  about 
his  own  health.  He  ignores  his  body  entirely,  and  seems 
determined  to  work  as  if  he  were  a  spirit  and  could  live 
on  prayer  and  fasting." 

"  Which,  as  he  isn't  a  spirit,  won't  do,"  said  Harry. 
"  It  may  end  in  making  a  spirit  of  him  before  the 
time." 

"  But  do  n't  you  think  the  disinterestedness  he  shows 
is  perfectly  heroic?"  said  Eva. 

"  Oh,  certainly  !"  said  Harry.  "  The  fact  is,  I  should 
despair  of  St.  John  if  he  hadn't  set  himself  at  mission 
work.  He  is  naturally  so  ideal,  and  so  fastidious,  and  so 
fond  of  rules,  and  limits,  and  order,  that  if  he  had  n't 
this  practical  common-sense  problem  of  working  among 
the  poor  on  his  hands,  I  should  think  he  wouldn't  be 
good  for  much.  But  drunken  men  and  sorrowful  wives, 
ragged  children,  sickness,  pain,  poverty,  teach  a  man  the 
common-sense  of  religion  faster  than  anything  else,  and 
I  can  see  St.  John  is  learning  sense  for  everybody  but 
himself.  If  he  only  don't  run  his  own  body  down,  he  '11 
make  something  yet." 

"  I  think,  Harry,"  said  Eva,  "  he  is  a  little  doubtful 


148  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

of  whether  you  really  go  with  him  or  not.  I  do  n't  think 
he  knows  how  much  you  like  him." 

"  Go  with  him  !  of  course  I  do.  I  stand  up  for  St. 
John  and  defend  him.  So  long  as  a  man  is  giving  his 
whole  life  to  hard  work  among  the  poor  and  neglected 
he  may  burn  forty  candles,  if  he  wants  to,  for  all  I  care. 
He  may  turn  to  any  point  of  the  compass  he  likes,  east, 
west,  north,  or  south,  and  wear  all  the  colors  of  the  rain 
bow  if  it  suits  him,  and  I  won't  complain.  In  fact,  I 
like  processions,  and  chantings,  and  ceremonies,  if  you 
do  n't  get  too  many  of  them.  I  think,  generally  speak 
ing,  there  's  too  little  of  that  sort  of  thing  in  our  American 
life.  In  the  main,  St.  John  preaches  good  sermons;  that 
is,  good,  manly,  honest  talks  to  people  about  what  they 
need  to  know.  But  then  his  mind  is  tending  to  a  mono 
mania  of  veneration.  You  see  he  has  a  mystical,  poetic 
element  in  it  that  may  lead  him  back  into  the  old  idola 
tries  of  past  ages,  and  lead  weak  minds  there  after  him; 
that 's  why  I  want  to  get  him  acquainted  with  such  fellows 
as  Campbell.  He  needs  to  learn  the  common  sense  of 
life.  I  think  he  is  capable  of  it,  and  one  of  the  first 
things  he  has  got  to  learn  is  not  to  be  shocked  at  hearing 
things  said  from  other  people's  points  of  view.  If  these 
two  men  could  only  like  each  other,  so  as  to  listen  tol 
erantly  and  dispassionately  to  what  each  has  to  say,  they 
might  be  everything  to  each  other." 

"  Well,  how  to  get  a  mordant  to  unite  these  two  op 
posing  colors,"  said  Eva. 

"  That 's  what  you  women  are  for — at  least  such  wo 
men  as  you.  It 's  your  mission  to  interpret  differing 
natures — to  bind,  and  blend,  and  unite." 

"But  how  shall  we  get  them  to  like  each  other?"  said 
Eva.  "  Both  are  so  very  intense  and  so  opposite.  I 
suppose  Dr.  Campbell  would  consider  most  of  Mr.  St. 
John's  ideas  stuff  and  nonsense;  and  I  know,  as  well  as 


OUR  "EVENING"  PROJECTED.  148 

I  know  anything,  that  if  Mr.  St.  John  should  hear  Dr. 
Campbell  talking  as  he  talks  to  you,  he  would  shut  up 
like  a  flower — he  would  retire  into  himself  and  not  come 
here  any  more." 

"  Oh,  Eva,  that 's  making  the  man  too  ridiculous  and 
unmanly.  Good  gracious !  Can  't  a  man  who  thinks  he 
has  God's  truth — and  such  truth  ! — listen  to  opposing 
views  without  going  into  fits  ?  It 's  like  a  soldier  who 
cannot  face  guns  and  wants  to  stay  inside  of  a  clean, 
nice  fort,  making  pretty  stacks  of  bayonets  and  piling 
cannon  balls  in  lovely  little  triangles." 

"Well,  Harry,  I  know  Mr.  St.  John  isn't  like  that. 
I  do  n't  think  he  's  cowardly  or  unmanly,  but  he  is  very 
reverent,  and,  Harry,  you  are  very  free.  You  do  let  Dr. 
Campbell  go  on  so,  over  everything.  It  quite  shocks  me." 

"  Just  because  my  faith  is  so  strong  that  I  can  afford 
it.  I  can  see  when  he  is  mistaken  ;  but  he  is  a  genuine, 
active,  benevolent  man,  following  truth  when  he  sees  it, 
and  getting  a  good  deal  of  it,  and  most  important  truth, 
too.  We  've  got  to  get  truth  as  we  can  in  this  world, 
just  as  miners  dig  gold  out  of  the  mine  with  all  the 
quartz,  and  dirt,  and  dross  ;  but  it  pays." 

"  Well,  now,  I  shall  try  my  skill,  and  do  my  best  to 
dispose  these  two  refractory  chemicals  to  a  union,"  said 
Eva.  "  I  '11  tell  you  how  let 's  do.  I  '11  interest  Dr. 
Campbell  in  Mr.  St.  John's  health.  I  '11  ask  him  to 
study  him  and  see  if  he  can  't  take  care  of  him.  I  'm 
sure  he  needs  taking  care  of." 

"And,"  said  Harry,  "why  not  interest  Mr.  St.  John 
in  Dr.  Campbell's  soul?  Why  shouldn't  he  try  to  con 
vert  him  from  the  error  of  his  ways  ?" 

"  That  would  be  capital,"  said  Eva.  "  Let  each  con 
vert  the  other.  If  we  could  put  Dr.  Campbell  and  Mr. 
St.  John  together,  what  a  splendid  man  we  could  make 
of  them!" 


150  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Try  your  best,  my  dear ;  but  meanwhile  I  have 
three  or  four  hours'  writing  to  do  this  evening." 

"  Well,  then,  settle  yourself  down,  and  1  will  run  over 
and  expound  my  plans  to  the  good  old  ladies  over  the 
way.  I  am  getting  up  quite  an  intimacy  over  there ; 
Miss  Dorcas  is  really  vastly  entertaining.  It 's  like  liv 
ing  in  a  past  age  to  hear  her  talk." 

"  You  really  have  established  a  fashion  of  rushing  in 
upon  them  at  all  sorts  of  hours,"  said  Harry. 

"Yes,  but  they  like  it.  You  have  no  idea  what  nice 
things  they  say  to  me.  Even  old  Dinah  quivers  and 
giggles  with  delight  the  minute  she  sees  me — poor  old 
soul !  You  see  they  're  shut  up  all  alone  in  that  musty 
old  house,  like  enchanted  princesses,  and  gone  to  sleep 
there ;  and  I  am  the  predestined  fairy  to  wake  them 
up!" 

Eva  said  this  as  she  was  winding  a  cloud  of  fleecy 
worsted  around  her  head,  and  Harry  was  settling  him 
self  at  his  writing-table  in  a  little  alcove  curtained  off 
from  the  parlor. 

"  Do  n't  keep  the  old  ladies  up  too  late,"  said  Harry. 

"  Never  you  fear,"  said  Eva.  "  Perhaps  I  shall  stay 
to  see  Jack's  feet  washed  and  blanket  spread.  Those  are 
solemn  and  impressive  ceremonies  that  I  have  heard  de 
scribed,  but  never  witnessed." 

It  was  a  bright,  keen,  frosty,  starlight  evening,  and 
when  Eva  had  rung  the  door-bell  on  the  opposite  side, 
she  turned  and  looked  at  the  play  of  shadow  and  fire 
light  on  her  own  window-curtains. 

Suddenly  she  noticed  a  dark  form  of  a  woman  com 
ing  from  an  alley  back  of  the  house,  and  standing  irres 
olute,  looking  at  the  windows.  Then  she  drew  near  the 
house,  and  seemed  trying  to  read  the  name  on  the  door- 
plate. 

There  was   something   that   piqued    Eva's   curiosity 


OUR  "EVENING"  PROJECTED.  151 

about  these  movements,  and  just  as  the  door  was  opening 
behind  her  into  the  Vanderheyden  house,  the  strange 
woman  turned  away,  and  as  she  turned,  the  light  of  tne 
street-lamp  flashed  strongly  on  her  face.  Its  expression 
of  haggard  pain  and  misery  was  something  that  struck 
to  Eva's  heart,  though  it  was  but  a  momentary  glimpse, 
as  she  turned  to  go  into  the  house ;  for,  after  all,  the  wo 
man  was  nothing  to  her,  and  the  glimpse  of  her  face  was 
purely  an  accident,  such  as  occurs  to  one  hundreds  of 
times  in  the  streets  of  a  city. 

Still,  like  the  sound  of  a  sob  or  a  cry  from  one  un 
known,  the  misery  of  those  dark  eyes  struck  painfully  to 
Eva's  heart ;  as  if  to  her,  young,  beloved,  gay  and  hap 
py,  some  of  the  ever-present  but  hidden  anguish  of  life 
— the  great  invisible  mass  of  sorrow — had  made  an  ap 
peal. 

But  she  went  in  and  shut  the  door,  gave  one  sigh  and 
dismissed  it. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

MR.    ST.  JOHN    IS    OUT-ARGUED. 

A  WOMAN  has  two  vernal  seasons  in  her  life.  One 
is  the  fresh,  sweet-brier,  apple-blossom  spring  of 
girlhood — dewy,  bird-singing,  joyous  and  transient.  The 
other  is  the  spring  of  young  marriage,  before  the  austere 
labors  and  severe  strains  of  real  life  commence. 

It  is  the  spring  of  wedding  presents,  of  first  house 
keeping,  of  incipient,  undeveloped  matronage.  If  the 
young  girl  is  charming,  with  her  dawning  airs  of  woman 
hood,  her  inexperienced  naive  assumptions,  her  grave, 
ignorant  wisdom,  at  which  elders  smile  indulgently — so 
is  the  new-made  wife  with  her  little  matronly  graces,  her 
pretty  sense  of  responsibility  in  her  new  world  of  power. 

In  the  first  period, the  young  girl  herself  is  the  object 
of  attention  and  devotion.  She  is  the  permitted  center 
of  all  eyes,  the  leading  star  of  her  own  little  drama  of 
life.  But  with  marriage  the  center  changes.  Self  begins 
to  melt  away  into  something  higher.  The  girl  recognizes 
that  it  is  no  longer  her  individuality  that  is  the  chief 
thing,  but  that  she  is  the  priestess  and  minister  of  a  fam 
ily  state.  The  home  becomes  her  center,  and  to  her  home 
passes  the  charm  that  once  was  thrown  around  her  per 
son.  The  pride  that  she  may  have  had  in  self  becomes 
a  pride  in  her  home.  Her  home  is  the  new  impersona 
tion  of  herself;  it  is  her  throne,  her  empire.  How  often 
do  we  see  the  young  wife  more  sensitive  to  the  adorn 
ment  of  her  house  than  the  adornment  of  her  person, 
willing  even  to  retrench  and  deny  in  the  last,  that  her 


MR.  ST.   JOHN  IS  OUT-ARGUED.  153 

home  may  become  more  cheerful  and  attractive!  A 
pretty  set  of  china  for  her  tea-table  goes  farther  with  her 
than  a  gay  robe  for  herself.  She  will  sacrifice  ribbons 
and  laces  for  means  to  adorn  the  sacred  recesses 
which  have  become  to  her  an  expansion  of  her  own 
being. 

The  freshness  of  a  new  life  invests  every  detail  of  the 
freshly  arranged  menage.  Her  china,  her  bronzes,  her 
pictures,  her  silver,  her  table  cloths  and  napkins,  her 
closets  and  pantries,  all  speak  to  her  of  a  new  sense  of 
possession — a  new  and  different  hold  on  life.  Once  she 
was  only  a  girl,  moving  among  things  that  belonged  to 
mamma  and  papa;  now  she  is  a  matron,  surrounded 
everywhere  by  things  that  are  her  own — a  princess  in  her 
own  little  kingdom.  Nor  is  the  charm  lessened  that  she 
no  longer  uses  the  possessive  singular,  but  says  our.  And 
behind  those  pronouns,  we  and  our,  what  pleasant  secur 
ity !  What  innocent  pharisaism  of  self-complacency,  as 
each  congratulates  the  other  on  "  our  "  ways,  "  our  "  plans, 
"  our  "  arrangements ;  each,the  while,sure  that  they  two  are 
the  fortunate  among  mankind,  and  that  all  who  are  not 
blest  as  they  are  proper  subjects  for  indulgent  pity. 
"  After  all,  my  dear,"  says  he,  "  what  can  you  expect  of 
poor  Snooks  ? — a  bachelor,  poor  fellow.  If  he  only  had  a 
wife  like  you,  now,"  etc.,  etc.  Or,  "  I  can't  really  blame 
Cynthia  with  that  husband  of  hers,  Harry  dear.  If  I 
were  married  to  such  a  man,  I  should  act  like  a  little 
fiend.  If  she  had  only  such  a  husband  as  you,  now!" 
This  secret,  respectable,  mutual  admiration  society  of 
married  life,  of  how  much  courage  and  hope  is  it  the 
parent !  For,  do  not  our  failures  and  mistakes  often 
come  from  discouragement  ?  Does  not  every  human 
being  need  a  believing  second  self,  whose  support  and 
approbation  shall  reinforce  one's  failing  courage?  The 
saddest  hours  of  life  are  when  we  doubt  ourselves.  To 


154  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

sensitive,  excitable  people,  who  expend  nervous  energy 
freely,  must  come  many  such  low  tides.  "  Am  I  really 
a  miserable  failure — a  poor,  good-for-nothing,  abortive 
attempt?"  In  s.uch  crises  we  need  another  self  to  restore 
our  equilibrium. 

Our  young  friends  were  just  in  the  second  spring  of 
life's  new  year.  They  were  as  fond  and  proud  of  their 
little  house  as  a  prince  of  his  palace — possibly  a  good 
deal  more  so.  They  were  proud  of  each  other.  Eva  felt 
sure  that  Harry  was  destined  to  the  high  places  of  the 
literary  world.  She  read  his  editorials  with  sincere  ad 
miration,  hid  his  poems  away  in  her  heart,  and  pasted 
them  carefully  in  her  scrap-book.  Fame  and  success 
she  felt  sure  ought  to  come  to  him,  and  would.  He  was 
"such  a  faithful,  noble-hearted  fellow,  and  worked  so 
steadily."  And  he,  with  what  pride  he  spoke  the  words 
"my  wife"!  With  what  exultation  repressed  under  an 
air  of  playful  indifference  he  brought  this  and  that  asso 
ciate  in  to  dine,  and  enjoyed  the  admiration  of  her  and 
her  pretty  home,  and  graceful,  captivating  ways.  He 
liked  to  see  the  effect  of  her  gay,  sparkling  conversation, 
her  easy  grace,  on  these  new  subjects;  for  Eva  was,  in 
truth,  a  charming  woman.  The  mixture  of  innocent 
shrewdness,  of  sprightly  insight,  of  bright  and  airy  fancy 
about  her,  made  her  society  a  thing  to  be  longed  after, 
as  people  long  for  a  pleasant  stimulant.  Like  all  bright, 
earnest  young  men,  Harry  wanted  to  "  lend  a  hand  "  to 
make  the  world  around  him  brighter  and  better,  and  had 
his  ideas  of  what  a  charming,  attractive  home  might  do 
as  a  center  to  many  hearts  in  promoting  mutual  brother 
hood  and  good  fellowship.  He  had  not  a  doubt  of  their 
little  social  venture  in  society,  nor  that  Eva  was  precisely 
the  person  to  make  of  their  house  a  pleasant  resort,  to 
be  in  herself  the  blending  and  interpreting  medium 
through  whom  differing  and  even  discordant  natures 


MR.   ST.  JOHN  IS  OUT-ARGUED,  155 

should  be  brought  to  understand  the  good  that  was  in 
one  another. 

As  a  preparation  for  the  first  experiment,  Eva  had 
commenced  by  inviting  Mr.  St.  John  to  dinner,  that  she 
might  enlist  his  approbation  of  her  scheme  and  have 
time  to  set  it  before  him  in  that  charming  fireside  hour, 
when  spirits,  like  flowers,  open  to  catch  the  dews  of  in 
fluence.  After  dinner  Harry  had  an  engagement  at  the 
printing-office,  and  left  Eva  the  field  all  to  herself;  and 
she  managed  her  cards  admirably.  Mr.  St.  John  had 
been  little  accustomed  to  the  society  of  cultured,  attract 
ive  women ;  but  he  had  in  his  own  refined  nature  every 
sensibility  to  respond  agreeably  to  its  influences;  and 
already  this  fireside  had  come  to  be  a  place  where  he 
loved  to  linger.  And  so,  when  she  had  him  comfortably 
niched  in  his  corner,  she  opened  the  first  parallel  of  her 
siege. 

"  Now,  Mr.  St.  John,  you  have  been  preaching  to  us 
about  self-denial,  and  putting  us  all  up  to  deeds  of  self- 
sacrifice — I  have  some  self-denying  work  to  propose  to 
you." 

Mr.  St.  John  opened  his  blue  eyes  wide  at  this  exor 
dium,  and  looked  an  interrogation. 

"Well,  Mr.  St.  John,"  pursued  Eva,  "we  are  going  to 
have  little  social  reunions  at  our  house  every  Thursday, 
from  seven  till  ten,  for  the  purpose  of  promoting  good 
feeling  and  fellowship,  and  we  want  our  rector  to  be  one 
of  us  and  help  us." 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Henderson,  I  have  not  the  least  social 
tact.  My  sphere  does  n't  lie  at  all  in  that  direction,"  said 
Mr.  St.  John,  nervously.  "  I  have  no  taste  for  general 
society." 

"  Yes,  but  I  think  you  told  us  last  Sunday  we  were 
not  to  consult  our  tastes.  You  told  us  that  if  we  felt  a 
strong  distaste  for  any  particular  course,  it  might  pos-; 


156  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

sibly  show  that  just  here  the  true  path  of  Christian  hero 
ism  lay." 

"  You  turn  my  words  upon  me,  Mrs.  Henderson.  I 
was  thinking  then  of  the  distaste  that  people  usually  feel 
for  visiting  the  poor  and  making  themselves  practically 
familiar  with  the  unlovely  side  of  life." 

"Well,  but  may  it  not  apply  the  other  way?  You 
are  perfectly  familiar  and  at  home  among  the  poor,  but 
you  have  always  avoided  society  among  cultured  persons 
of  your  own  class.  May  not  the  real  self-denial  for  you 
lie  there  ?  You  have  a  fastidious  shrinking  from  stran 
gers.  May  it  not  be  your  duty  to  overcome  it  ?  There 
are  a  great  many  I  know  in  our  circle  who  might  be  the 
better  for  knowing  you.  Have  you  a  right  to  shrink 
back  from  them  ?" 

Mr.  St.  John  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"  Now,"  pursued  Eva,  "  there's  a  young  Dr.  Campbell 
that  I  want  you  to  know.  To  be  sure,  he  is  n't  a  believer 
in  the  church — not  a  believer  at  all,  I  fear ;  but  still  a 
charming,  benevolent,  kindly,  open-hearted  man,  and  I 
want  him  to  know  you,  and  come  under  good  influ 
ences." 

"I  don't  believe  I'm  at  all  adapted,"  said  Mr.  St. 
John,  hesitatingly. 

"  Well,  dear  sir,  what  do  you  say  to  us  when  we  say 
the  same  about  mission  work?  Don't  you  tell  us  that 
if  we  honestly  try  we  shall  learn  to  adapt  ourselves?" 

"  That  is  true,"  said  St.  John,  frankly. 

"Besides,"  said  Eva,  "  Mr.  St.  John,  Dr.  Campbell 
might  do  you  good.  All  your  friends  feel  that  you  are 
too  careless  of  your  health.  Indeed,  we  all  feel  great 
concern  about  it,  and  you  might  learn  something  of  Dr. 
Campbell  in  this." 

Thus  Eva  pursued  her  advantage  with  that  fluent 
ability  with  which  a  pretty  young  woman  at  her  own 


MR.   ST.   JOHN  IS  OUT-ARGUED.  157 

fireside  always  gets  the  best  of  the  argument.  Mr.  St. 
John,  attacked  on  the  weak  side  of  conscientiousness, 
was  obliged  at  last  to  admit  that  to  spend  an  evening 
with  agreeable,  cultivated,  well-dressed  people  might  be 
occasionally  as  much  a  shepherd's  duty  as  to  sit  in  the 
close,  ill-smelling  rooms  of  poverty  and  listen  to  the 
croonings  and  maunderings  of  the  ill-educated,  improvi 
dent,  and  foolish,  who  make  so  large  a  proportion  of  the 
less  fortunate  classes  of  society.  It  had  been  suggested  to 
him  that  a  highly-educated,  agreeable  young  doctor,  who 
talked  materialism  and  dissented  from  the  thirty-nine 
articles,  might  as  properly  be  borne  with  as  a  drinking 
young  mechanic  who  talked  unbelief  of  a  lower  and  less 
respectable  order. 

Now  it  so  happened,  by  one  of  those  unexpected  co 
incidences  that  fall  out  in  the  eternal  order  of  things, 
that  Eva  was  reinforced  in  her  course  of  argument  by 
a  silent  and  subtle  influence,  of  which  she  was  herself 
scarcely  aware.  The  day  seldom  passed  that  one  or 
other  of  her  sisters  did  not  form  a  part  of  her  family 
circle,  and  on  this  day  of  all  others  the  fates  had  willed 
that  Angelique  should  come  up  to  work  on  her  Christ 
mas  presents  by  Eva's  fireside. 

Imagine,  therefore,  as  the  scene  of  this  conversation, 
a  fire-lighted  room,  the  evening  flicker  of  the  blaze  fall 
ing  in  flecks  and  flashes  over  books  and  pictures,  and 
Mr.  St.  John  in  a  dark,  sheltered  corner,  surveying  with 
out  being  surveyed,  listening  to  Eva's  animated  logic, 
and  yet  watching  a  very  pretty  tableau  in  the  opposite 
corner. 

There  sat  Angelique,  listening  to  the  conversation, 
with  the  fire-light  falling  in  flashes  on  her  golden  hair 
and  her  lap  full  of  worsteds — rosy,  pink,  blue,  lilac,  and 
yellow.  Her  little  hands  were  busy  in  some  fleecy  won 
der,  designed  to  adorn  the  Christmas-tree  for  the  mis- 


158  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

sion  school  of  his  church ;  and  she  knit  and  turned  and 
twisted  the  rosy  mystery  with  an  air  of  grave  interest, 
the  while  giving  an  attentive  ear  to  the  conversation. 

Mr.  St.  John  was  not  aware  that  he  was  looking  at 
her;  in  fact,  he  supposed  he  was  listening  to  Eva,  who 
was  eloquently  setting  forth  to  him  all  the  good  points 
in  Dr.  Campbell's  character,  and  the  reasons  why  it  was 
his  duty  to  seek  and  cultivate  his  acquaintance ;  but 
while  she  spoke  and  while  he  replied  he  saw  the  little 
hands  moving,  and  a  sort  of  fairy  web  weaving,  and  the 
face  changing  as,  without  speaking  a  word,  she  followed 
with  bright,  innocent  sympathy  the  course  of  the  con 
versation. 

When  Eva,  with  a  becoming  air  of  matronly  gravity, 
lectured  him  for  his  reckless  treatment  of  his  own  health, 
and  his  want  of  a  proper  guide  on  that  subject,  An- 
gelique's  eyes  seemed  to  say  the  same;  and  sometimes, 
when  Eva  turned  just  the  faintest  light  of  satire  on  the 
ascetic  notions  to  which  he  was  prone,  those  same  eyes 
sparkled  with  that  frank  gaiety  that  her  dimpled  face 
seemed  made  to  express.  Now  the  kitten  catches  at  her 
thread,  and  she  stops,  and  bends  over  and  dangles  the 
ball,  and  laughs  softly  to  herself,  and  St.  John  from  his 
dark  corner  watches  the  play.  There  is  something  of 
the  kitten  in  her,  he  thinks.  Even  her  gravest  words 
have  suggested  the  air  of  a  kitten  on  good  behavior,  and 
perhaps  she  may  be  a  naughty,  wicked  kitten — who 
knows?  A  kitten  lying  in  wait  to  catch  unwary  birds 
and  mice!  But  she  looked  so  artless — so  innocent! — her 
little  head  bent  on  one  side  like  a  flower,  and  her  eyes 
sparkling  as  if  she  were  repressing  a  laugh  ! — a  nervous 
idea  shot  through  the  conversation  to  Mr.  St.  John's 
heart.  What  if  this  girl  should  laugh  at  him  ?  St.  Je 
rome  himself  might  have  been  vulnerable  to  a  poisoned 
arrow  like  this.  What  if  he  really  were  getting  absurd 


MR.  ST.   JOHN  IS  OUT-ARGUED.  159 

notions  and  ways  in  the  owl-like  recesses  and  retirements 
of  his  study — growing  rusty,  unfit  for  civilized  life  ? 
Clearly  it  was  his  duty  to  "come  forth  into  the  light  of 
things,"  and  before  he  left  that  evening  he  gave  his 
pledge  to  Eva  that  he  would  be  one  of  the  patrons  of  her 
new  social  enterprise. 

It  is  to  be  confessed  that  as  he  went  home  that  night 
he  felt  that  duty  had  never  worn  an  aspect  so  agreeable. 
It  was  certainly  his  place  as  a  good  fisher  of  men  to  study 
the  habits  of  the  cultured,  refined,  and  influential  portion 
of  society,  as  well  as  of  its  undeveloped  children.  Then, 
he  did  n't  say  it  to  himself,  but  the  scene  where  these 
investigations  were  to  be  pursued  rose  before  him  insen 
sibly  as  one  where  Angelique  was  to  be  one  of  the 
entertainers.  It  would  give  him  a  better  opportunity  of 
studying  the  genus  and  habits  of  that  variety  of  the 
church  militant  who  train  in  the  uniform  of  fashionable 
girls,  and  to  decide  the  yet  doubtful  question  whether 
they  had  any  genuine  capacity  for  church  work.  An- 
gelique's  evident  success  with  her  class  was  a  puzzle  to 
him,  and  he  thought  he  would  like  to  know  her  better, 
and  see  if  real,  earnest,  serious  purposes  could  exist  un 
der  that  gay  exterior. 

Somehow,  he  could  not  fancy  those  laughing  eyes  and 
that  willful,  curly,  golden  hair  under  the  stiff  cap  of  a 
Sister  of  Charity;  and  he  even  doubted  whether  a  gray 
cloak  would  seem  as  appropriate  as  the  blue  robe  and 
ermine  cape  where  the  poor  little  child  had  rested  her 
scarred  cheek.  He  liked  to  think  of  her  just  as  she 
looked  then  and  there.  And  why  shouldn't  he  get  ac 
quainted  with  her  ?  If  he  was  ever  going  to  form  a  sis 
terhood  of  good  works,  certainly  it  was  his  duty  to 
understand  the  sisters.  Clearly  it  was ! 


CHAPTER  XV. 

GETTING    READY    TO    BEGIN. 

"T  TAVING  company"  is  one  of  those  incidents  of 
1  1  life  which  in  all  circles,  high  or  low,  cause  more 
or  less  searchings  of  heart. 

Even  the  moderate  "tea-fight"  of  good  old  times 
necessitated  not  only  anxious  thought  in  the  hostess  her 
self,  but  also  a  mustering  and  review  of  best  "  bibs  and 
tuckers,"  through  the  neighborhood. 

But  to  undertake  a  "  serial  sociable"  in  New  York,  in 
this  day  of  serials,  was  something  even  graver,  causing 
many  thoughts  and  words  in  many  houses. 

Witness  the  following  specimens  : 

"  I  confess,  Nellie,  /  can't  understand  Eva's  ways," 
said  Aunt  Maria,  the  morning  of  the  first  Thursday. 
"  She  don't  come  to  me  for  advice ;  but  I  confess  I  don't 
understand  her." 

Aunt  Maria  was  in  a  gloomy,  severe  state  of  mind, 
owing  to  the  contumacy  and  base  ingratitude  of  Alice  in 
rejecting  her  interposition  and  care,  and  she  came  down 
this  morning  to  signify  her  displeasure  to  Nellie  at  the 
way  she  had  been  treated. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Van 
Arsdel,  deprecatingly.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know  of  any 
thing  that  Eva's  been  doing  lately." 

"Why,  these  evenings  of  hers;  I  don't  understand 
them.  Setting  out  to  have  receptions  in  that  little  out- 
of-the-way  shell  of  hers!  Why,  who'll  go?  Nobody 
wants  to  ramble  off  up  there,  and  not  get  to  anything 
after  all.  It's  going  to  be  a  sort  of  mixed-up  affair — 


GETTING  READY   TO   BEGIN.  161 

newspaper  men,  and  people  that  nobody  knows — all  well 
enough  in  their  way,  perhaps  ;  but  /  shan't  be  mixed  up 
in  it."  Aunt  Maria  nodded  her  head  gloomily,  and  the 
bows  and  feathers  on  her  hat  quivered  protestingly. 

"  Oh,  they  are  going  to  be  just  unpretending  sociable 
little  gatherings,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel.  "  Just  the 
family  and  a  few  friends ;  and  /  think  they  are  going  to 
be  pleasant.  I  wish  you  would  go,  Maria.  Eva  will  be 
disappointed." 

"  No,  she  won't.  It's  evident,  Nelly,  that  your  girls 
don't  any  of  them  care  about  me,  or  regard  anything  I 
say.  Well,  I  only  hope  they  mayn't  live  to  repent  it ; 
that's  all." 

Aunt  Maria  said  this  with  that  menacing  sniff  with 
which  people  in  a  bad  humor  usually  dispense  Christian 
charity.  The  dark  awfulness  of  the  hope  expressed 
really  chilled  poor  little  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel's  blood.  From 
long  habits  of  dependence  upon  her  sister,  she  had  come 
to  regard  her  displeasure  as  one  of  the  severer  evils  of 
life.  To  keep  the  peace  with  Maria,  as  far  as  she  her 
self  was  concerned,  would  have  been  easy.  Contention 
was  fatiguing  to  her.  It  was  a  trouble  to  have  the 
responsibility  of  making  up  her  own  mind ;  and  she  was 
quite  willing  that  Maria  should  carry  her  through  the 
journey  of  life,  buy  her  tickets,  choose  her  hotels,  and 
settle  with  her  cabmen.  But,  complicated  with  a  hus 
band,  and  a  family  of  bright,  independent  daughters, 
each  endowed  with  a  separate  will  of  her  own,  Mrs. 
Van  Arsdel  led  on  the  whole  a  hard  life.  People  who 
hate  trouble  generally  get  a  good  deal  of  it.  It's  all 
very  well  for  a  gentle  acquiescent  spirit  to  be  carried 
through  life  by  one  bearer.  But  when  half  a  dozen 
bearers  quarrel  and  insist  on  carrying  one  opposite 
ways,  the  more  facile  the  spirit,  the  greater  the  trouble. 

Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  in  fact,  passed  a  good  deal  of  her 


162  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

life  in  being  talked  over  to  one  course  of  conduct  by 
Aunt  Maria,  and  talked  back  again  by  her  girls.  She 
resembled  a  weak,  peaceable  hamlet  on  the  border-land 
between  France  and  Germany,  taken  and  retaken  with 
much  wear  and  tear  of  spirit,  and  heartily  wishing  peace 
at  any  price. 

"I  don't  see  how  Eva  is  going  to  afford  all  this," 
continued  Aunt  Maria  gloomily. 

"  Oh !  there's  to  be  no  evening  entertainment,  noth 
ing  but  a  little  tea,  and  biscuit,  and  sponge  cake,  in  the 
most  social  way,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel. 

"  But  all  this,  every  week,  in  time  comes  to  a  good 
deal,"  said  Aunt  Maria.  "  Now,  if  Eva  would  put  all  the 
extra  trouble  and  expense  of  these  evenings  into  one  good 
handsome  party  of  select  people  and  have  it  over  with, 
why  that  would  be  something  worth  while,  and  I  would 
help  her  get  it  up.  Such  a  party  stands  for  something. 
But  she  doesn't  come  to  me  for  advice.  I'm  a  superannu 
ated  old  woman,  I  suppose,"  and  Aunt  Maria  sighed  in 
a  way  heart-breaking  to  her  peace-loving  sister. 

"  Indeed,  Maria,  you  are  wrong.  You  are  provoked 
now.  You  don't  mean  so." 

"I'm — not  provoked.  Do  you  suppose  I  care?  I 
don't!  but  I  can  see,  I  suppose  !  I'm  not  quite  blind  yet, 
I  hope,  and  I  sha'n't  go  where  I'm  not  wanted.  And 
now,  if  you'll  give  me  those  samples,  Nellie,  I'll  go  to 
Arnold's  and  Stewart's  and  look  up  that  dress  for  you, 
and  then  I'll  take  your  laces  to  the  mender's.  It's  a 
good  morning's  work  to  go  up  to  that  dark  alley  where 
she  rooms ;  but  I'll  do  it,  now  I'm  about  it.  I'm  not  so 
worn  out  yet  but  what  I  am  acceptable  to  do  errands  for 
you,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  with  gloomy  satisfaction. 

"  Oh,  Maria,  how  can  you  talk  so!"  said  little  Mrs. 
Van  Arsdel,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  You  really  are 
unjust." 


GETTING  READY   TO   BEGTN.  103 

"  There's  no  use  in  discussing  matters,  Nellie.  Give 
me  the  patterns  and  the  laces,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  obdu 
rately.  "  Here!  I'll  sort  'em  out.  You  never  have  any 
thing  ready,"  she  said,  opening  her  sister's  drawer,  and 
taking  right  and  left  such  articles  as  she  deemed  proper, 
with  as  much  composure  as  if  her  sister  had  been  a 
seven-year-old  child.  "There!"  she  said,  shutting  the 
drawer,  "now  I'm  ready.  Good  morning!" — and  away 
she  sailed,  leaving  her  sister  abased  in  spirit,  and 
vaguely  contrite  for  she  couldn't  tell  what. 

Aunt  Maria  had  the  most  disagreeable  habit  of  vent 
ing  her  indignation  on  her  sister,  by  going  to  most  un 
comfortable  extremes  of  fatiguing  devotion  to  her  ser 
vice.  With  a  brow  of  gloom  and  an  air  of  martyrdom, 
she  would  explore  shops,  tear  up  and  down  stair-cases, 
perform  fatiguing  pilgrimages  for  Nellie  and  the  girls ; 
piling  all  these  coals  of  fire  on  their  heads,  and  looking 
all  the  while  so  miserably  abused  and  heart-broken  that 
it  required  stronger  discrimination  than  poor  Mrs.  Van 
Arsdel  was  gifted  with  not  to  feel  herself  a  culprit. 

"  Only  think,  your  Aunt  Maria  says  she  won't  go  this 
evening,"  she  said  in  a  perplexed  and  apprehensive  tone 
to  her  girls. 

"  Glad  of  it,"  said  Alice,  and  the  words  were  echoed 
by  Angelique. 

"Oh,  girls,  you  oughtn't  to  feel  so  about  your  aunt!" 

"We  don't,"  said  Alice,  "but  as  long  as  she  feels  so 
about  us,  it's  just  as  well  not  to  have  her  there.  We 
girls  are  all  going  to  do  our  best  to  make  the  first  eve 
ning  a  success,  so  that  everybody  shall  have  a  good  time 
and  want  to  come  again ;  and  if  Aunt  Maria  goes  in  her 
present  pet,  she  would  be  as  bad  as  Edgar  Poe's  raven." 

"Just  fancy  our  having  her  on  our  hands,  saying 
'nevermore'  at  stated  intervals,"  said  Angelique,  laughing; 
"why,  it  would  upset  everything!" 


164  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"Angelique,  you  oughtn't  to  make  fun  of  your  aunt," 
said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  with  an  attempt  at  reproving 
gravity. 

"I'm  sure  it's  the  nicest  thing  we  can  make  of  her, 
Mammy  dear,"  said  Angelique ;  "  it's  better  to  laugh 
than  to  cry  any  time.  Oh,  Aunt  Maria  will  keep^  never 
fear.  She'll  clear  off  by-and-by,  like  a  northeast  rain 
storm,  and  then  we  shall  like  her  well  as  ever;  sha'n't 
we,  girls?" 

"Oh,  yes;  she  always  comes  round  after  a  while," 
said  Alice. 

"  Well,  now  I'm  going  up  to  help  Eva  get  the  rooms 
ready,"  said  Angelique,  and  out  she  fluttered,  like  a 
flossy  bit  of  thistle-down. 

Angelique  belonged  to  the  corps  of  the  laughing 
saints — a  department  not  always  recognized  by  the 
straiter  sort  in  the  church  militant,  but  infinitely  effect 
ive  and  to  the  purpose  in  the  battle  of  life.  Her  heart 
was  a  tender  but  a  gay  one — perhaps  the  lovingness  of 
it  kept  it  bright ;  for  love  is  a  happy  divinity,  and  Ange 
lique  loved  everybody,  and  saw  the  best  side  of  every 
thing;  besides,  just  now  she  was  barely  seventeen,  and 
thought  the  world  a  very  nice  place.  She  was  the  very 
life  of  the  household,  the  one  who  loved  to  run  and  wait 
and  tend ;  who  could  stop  gaps  and  fill  spaces,  and  liked 
to  do  it :  and  so,  this  day,  she  devoted  herself  to  Eva's 
service  in  the  hundred  somethings  that  pertain  to  get 
ting  a  house  in  order  for  an  evening  reception. 


On  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  the  projected  hospi 
talities  awoke  various  conflicting  emotions. 

"  Dinah,  I  don't  really  know  whether  I  shall  go  to 
that  company  to-night  or  not,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey  confi 
dentially  to  Dinah  over  her  ironing-table. 


GETTING  READY   TO  BEGIN.  165 

"Land  sakes,  Mis'  Betsey,"  said  Dinah,  with  her 
accustomed  giggle,  "  how  you  talk !  What  you  'feard 
on?" 

Mrs.  Betsey  had  retreated  to  the  kitchen,  to  indulge 
herself  with  Dinah  in  tremors  and  changes  of  emotion 
which  had  worn  out  the  patience  of  Miss  Dorcas  in  the 
parlor.  That  good  lady,  having  made  up  her  mind  de 
finitively  to  go  and  take  Betsey  with  her,  was  indisposed 
to  repeat  every  half  hour  the  course  of  argument  by 
which  she  had  demonstrated  to  her  that  it  was  the 
proper  thing  to  do. 

But  the  fact  was,  that  poor  Mrs.  Betsey  was  terribly 
fluttered  by  the  idea  of  going  into  company  again. 
Years  had  passed  in  that  old  dim  house,  with  the  solemn 
clock  tick-tocking  in  the  corner,  and  the  sunbeam 
streaming  duskily  at  given  hours  through  the  same  win 
dows,  with  no  sound  of  coming  or  going  footsteps.  There 
the  two  ancient  sisters  had  been  working,  reading,  talk 
ing,  round  and  round  on  the  same  unvarying  track,  for 
weeks,  months  and  years,  and  now,  suddenly,  had  come 
a  change.  The  pretty,  gay,  little  housekeeper  across  the 
way  had  fluttered  in  with  a  whole  troop  of  invisible  elves 
of  persuasion  in  the  very  folds  of  her  garments,  and  had 
cajoled  and  charmed  them  into  a  promise  to  be  support 
ers  of  her  "  evenings,"  and  Miss  Dorcas  was  determined 
to  go.  But  all  ye  of  womankind  know  that  after  every 
such  determination  comes  a  review  of  the  wherewithal, 
and  many  tremors. 

Now  Miss  Dorcas  was  self-sufficing,  and  self-sus 
tained.  She  knew  herself  to  be  Miss  Dorcas  Vander- 
heyden,  in  the  first  place ;  and  she  had  a  general  con 
fidence,  by  right  of  her  family  and  position,  that  all  her 
belongings  were  the  right  things.  They  might  be  out  of 
fashion — so  much  the  worse  for  the  fashion ;  Miss  Dor 
cas  wore  them  with  a  cheerful  courage.  Yet,  as  she  fre- 


166  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

quently  remarked,  "  sooner  or  later,  if  you  let  things  lie, 
fashion  always  comes  round  to  them."  They  had  come 
round  to  her  many  times  in  the  course  of  her  life,  and 
always  found  her  ready  for  them.  But  Mrs.  Betsey  was 
timorous,  and  had  a  large  allowance  of  what  the  phre 
nologists  call  "approbadveness."  In  her  youth  she  had 
been  a  fashionable  young  belle,  and  now  she  had  as  many 
flutters  and  tremors  about  her  gray  curls  and  her  caps  as 
in  the  days  when  she  sat  up  all  night  in  an  arm-chair 
with  her  hair  dressed  and  powdered  for  a  ball.  In  fact, 
an  old  lady's  cap  is  undeniably  a  tender  point.  One 
might  imagine  it  to  be  a  sort  of  shrine  or  last  retreat  in 
which  all  her  youthful  love  of  dress  finds  asylum ;  and, 
in  estimating  her  fitness  for  any  scene  of  festivity,  the 
cap  is  the  first  consideration.  So,  when  Dinah  chuckled, 
"What  ye  'feard  on,  honey?"  Mrs.  Betsey  came  out 
with  it : 

"  Dinah,  I  don't  know  which  of  my  caps  to  wear." 

"  Lor'  sakes,  Mis'  Betsey,  wear  yer  new  one.  What's 
to  hender?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  it's  trimmed  with  lilac  ribbons,  and 
the  shade  don't  go  with  my  new  brown  gown ;  they  look 
horridly  together.  Dorcas  never  does  notice  such  things, 
but  they  don't  go  well  together.  I  tried  to  tell  Dorcas 
about  it,  but  she  shut  me  up,  saying  I  was  always 
fussy." 

"  Well,  laws  !  then,  honey,  wear  your  other  cap — it's  a 
right  nice  un  now,"  said  Dinah  in  a  coaxing  tone. 

"  Trimmed  with  white  ribbon — "  said  Mrs.  Betsey, 
ruminating;  "but  you  see,  Dinah,  that  ribbon  has  really 
got  quite  yellow ;  and  there's  a  spot  on  one  of  the 
strings,"  she  added,  in  a  tone  of  poignant  emotion. 

"  Well,  now,  I  tell  ye  what  to  do,"  said  Dinah ;  "  you 
jest  wear  your  new  cap  with  them  laylock  ribbins,  and 
wear  your  black  silk  :  that  are  looks  illegant  now." 


GETTING  READY   TO  BEGIN.  167 

"  But  my  black  silk  is  so  old  ;  it's  pieced  under  the 
arm,  and  beginning  to  fray  in  the  gathers. " 

"  Land  sake,  Mis'  Betsey !  who's  agoin'  to  look  under 
your  arm?"  said  Dinah.  "They  a'n't  agoin'  to  set  you 
up  under  one  o'  them  sterry  scopes  to  be  looked  at,  be 
they?  You'll  do  to  pass  now,  I  tell  ye;  now  don't  go 
to  gettin'  fluttered  and  'steriky,  Mis'  Betsey.  Why  don't 
ye  go  right  along,  like  Mis'  Dorcas?  She  don't  have 
no  megrims  and  tantrums  'bout  what  she's  goin'  to 
wear." 

Dinah's  tolerant  spirit  in  admitting  this  discussion 
was,  however,  a  real  relief  to  Mrs.  Betsey.  Like  various 
liquors  which  are  under  a  necessity  of  working  them 
selves  clear,  Mrs.  Betsey  found  a  certain  amount  of  talk 
necessary  to  clear  her  mind  when  proceeding  to  act  in 
any  emergency,  and  for  this  purpose  a  listener  was  essen 
tial  ;  but  Dorcas  was  so  entirely  above  such  fluctuations 
as  hers — so  positive  and  definite  in  all  her  judgments  and 
conclusions — that  she  could  not  enjoy  in  her  society  the 
unlimited  amount  of  discussion  necessary  to  clarify  her 
mental  vision. 

It  was  now  about  the  fifth  or  sixth  time  that  all  the 
possibilities  with  regard  to  her  wardrobe  had  been  up 
for  consideration  that  day ;  till  Miss  Dorcas,  who  had 
borne  with  her  heroically  for  a  season,  had  finally  closed 
the  discussion  by  recommending  a  chapter  in  Watts  on 
the  Mind  which  said  a  great  many  unpleasant  things 
about  people  who  occupy  themselves  too  much  with  tri 
fles,  and  thus  Mrs.  Betsey  was  driven  to  unbosom  her 
self  to  Dinah. 

"Then,  again,  there's  Jack,"  she  added;  "I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  what  he'll  think  of  our  both  being  out; 
there  never  such  a  thing  happened  before." 

"Land  sake,  Mis'  Betsey,  jest  as  if  Jack  cared  !  Why, 
he'll  stay  with  me.  I'll  see  arter  him — I  will." 


168  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"Well,  you  must  be  good  to  him,  Dinah,"  said  Mrs. 
Betsey,  apprehensively. 

"Ain't  I  allers  good  to  him?  I  don't  set  him  up  for 
a  graven  image  and  fall  down  and  washup  him,  to  be 
sure;  but  Jack  has  good  times  with  me,  if  I  do  make  him 
mind." 

The  fact  was,  that  Dinah  often  seconded  the  disci 
plinary  views  of  Miss  Dorcas  with  the  strong  arm,  pull 
ing  Jack  backward  by  the  tail,  and  correcting  him  with 
vigorous  thumps  of  the  broomstick  when  he  fell  into 
those  furors  of  barking  which  were  his  principal  weak 
ness. 

Dinah  had  all  the  sociable  instincts  of  her  race ;  and 
it  moved  her  indignation  that  the  few  acquaintances 
who  found  their  way  to  the  forsaken  old  house  should 
be  terrified  and  repelled  by  such  distracted  tumults  as 
Jack  generally  created  when  the  door-bell  rang.  Hence 
her  attitude  toward  him  had  so  often  been  belligerent 
that  poor  Mrs.  Betsey  felt  small  confidence  in  leaving 
him  to  the  trying  separation  of  the  evening  under  Di 
nah's  care. 

"Well,  Dinah,  you  won't  whip  Jack  if  he  does  bark? 
I  dare  say  he'll  be  lonesome.  You  must  make  allow 
ances  for  him." 

"Oh,  laws,  yes,  honey,  I'll  make  'lowance,  never  you 
fear." 

"And  you  really  think  the  black  dress  will  do?" 

"Jest  as  sartin  as  I  be  that  I'm  here  a  ironin'  this 
'ere  pillow-bier.  Why,  honey,  you'll  look  like  a  pictur, 
you  will." 

"  Oh,  Dinah,  I'm  an  old  woman." 

"Well,  honey,  what  if  you  be?  Land  sakes,  don't  I 
remember  when  you  was  the  belie  of  New  York  city? 
Lord  love  ye !  Them  was  days  !  When  'twas  all  comin' 
and  goin',  hosses  a-prancin',  house  full,  and  fellers  fairly 


GETTING  READY   TO  BEGIN.  169 

a-tumblin'  over  each  other  jest  to  get  a  look  at  ye.  Laws, 
honey,  ye  was  wuth  lookin'  at  in  dem  days." 

"  Oh,  Dinah,  you  silly  old  soul,  what  nonsense  you 
talk!" 

"  Well,  honey,  you  know  you  was  de  handsomest  gal 
goin'.  Now  you  knows  you  was,"  said  Dinah,  chuckling 
and  shaking  her  portly  sides. 

"  I  suppose  I  wasn't  bad  looking,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey, 
laughing  in  turn ;  and  the  color  flushed  in  her  delicate, 
faded  cheeks,  and  her  pretty  bright  eyes  grew  misty  with 
a  thought  of  all  the  little  triumphs,  prides,  and  regrets 
of  years  ago. 

To  say  the  truth,  Mrs.  Betsey,  though  past  the  noon 
time  of  attraction,  was  a  very  pretty  old  woman.  Her 
hands  were  still  delicate  and  white,  her  skin  was  of  lily 
fairness,  and  her  hair  like  fine-spun  silver;  and  she  re 
tained  still  all  the  nice  instincts  and  habits  of  the  woman 
who  has  known  herself  charming.  She  still  felt  the  dis 
cord  of  a  shade  in  her  ribbons  like  a  false  note  in  music, 
and  was  annoyed  by  the  slightest  imperfection  of  her 
dress,  however  concealed,  to  a  degree  which  seemed  at 
times  wearisome  and  irrational  to  her  stronger  minded 
sister. 

But  Miss  Dorcas,  who  had  carried  her  in  her  arms,  a 
heart-broken  wreck  snatched  from  the  waves  of  a  de 
feated  life,  bore  with  her  as  heroically  as  we  ever  can 
bear  with  another  whose  nature  is  wholly  of  a  different 
make  and  texture  from  our  own. 

In  general,  she  made  up  her  mind  with  a  consider 
able  share  of  good  sense  as  to  what  it  was  best  for 
Betsey  to  do,  and  then  made  her  do  it,  by  that  power 
which  a  strong  and  steady  nature  exercises  over  a  weaker 
one. 

Miss  Dorcas  had  made  up  her  mind  that  more  society, 
and  some  little  change  in  her  modes  of  life,  would  be  a 
H 


170  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

benefit  to  her  sister ;  she  had  taken  a  strong  fancy  to 
Eva,  and  really  looked  forward  to  her  evenings  as  some 
thing  to  give  a  new  variety  and  interest  in  life. 

******** 

"Now,  Jim,"  said  Alice,  in  a  monitory  tone,  "you 
know  we  all  depend  on  you  to  manage  this  thing  just 
right  to-night.  You  mustn't  be  too  lively  and  frighten 
the  serious  folks;  but  you  must  keep  things  moving,  just 
as  you  know  how." 

"Well,  are  you  going  to  have  'our  rector  ?'  "  said  Jim. 

"Certainly.     Mr.  St.  John  will  be  there." 

"And  of  course,  our  little  Angie,"  said  Jim. 

"Certainly.  Angie,  and  Mamma,  and  Papa,  and  I, 
shall  all  be  there,"  said  Alice,  with  dignity.  "  Now,  Jim  !" 

The  exclamation  was  addressed  not  to  anything 
which  this  young  gentleman  had  said,  but  to  a  certain 
wicked  sparkle  in  his  eye  which  Alice  thought  predicted 
coming  mischief. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  said  Jim. 

"I  know  just  what  you're  thinking,"  said  Alice; 
"  and  now,  Jim,  you  mustn't  look  that  way  to-night." 

"  Look  what  way  !" 

"Well,  you  mustn't  in  any  way — look,  sign,  gesture  or 
word — direct  anybody's  attention  to  Mr.  .St.  John  and 
Angie.  Of  course  there's  nothing  there;  it's  all  a  fancy 
of  your  own — a  very  absurd  one ;  but  I've  known  peo 
ple  made  very  uncomfortable  by  such  absurd  sugges 
tions." 

"  Well,  am  I  to  wear  green  spectacles  to  keep  my 
eyes  from  looking?" 

"  You  are  to  do  just  right,  Jim,  and  nobody  knows 
how  that  is  to  be  done  better  than  you  do.  You  know 
that  you  have  the  gift  of  entertaining,  and  there  isn't  a 
mortal  creature  that  you  can't  please,  if  you  try;  and 
you  mustn't  talk  to  those  you  like  best  to-night,  but  be- 


GETTING  READY   TO  BEGIN.  171 

stow  yourself  wherever  a  hand  is  needed.  You  must 
entertain  those  old  ladies  over  the  way,  and  get  ac 
quainted  with  Mr.  St.  John,  and  talk  to  the  pretty 
Quaker  woman ;  in  short,  make  yourself  generally  use 
ful." 

"  O.  K.,"  said  Jim.  "  I'll  be  on  hand.  I'll  make  love 
to  all  the  old  ladies,  and  let  the  parson  admonish  me,  as 
meek  as  Moses  ;  and  I'll  look  right  the  other  way,  if  I  see 
him  looking  at  Angie.  Anything  more  ?" 

"  No,  that'll  do,"  said  Alice,  laughing.  "  Only  do 
your  best,  and  it  will  be  good  enough." 

*****  #** 

Eva  was  busy  about  her  preparations,  when  Dr. 
Campbell  came  in  to  borrow  a  book. 

"  Now,  Dr.  Campbell,"  said  she,  "  you're  just  the 
man  I  wanted  to  see.  I  must  tell  you  that  one  grand 
reason  why  I  want  to  be  sure  and  secure  you  for  our 
evenings,  and  this  one  in  particular,  is  I  have  caught  our 
rector  and  got  his  promise  to  come,  and  I  want  you  to 
study  him  critically,  for  I'm  afraid  he's  in  the  way  to  get 
to  heaven  long  before  we  do,  if  he  isn't  looked  after. 
He's  not  in  the  least  conscious  of  it,  but  he  does  need 
attention." 

Dr.  Campbell  was  a  hale  young  man  of  twenty-five  ; 
blonde,  vigorous,  high-strung,  active,  and  self-confident, 
and  as  keen  set  after  medical  and  scientific  facts  as  a 
race-horse  for  the  goal.  As  a  general  thing,  he  had  ro 
special  fancy  for  clergymen  ;  but  a  clergyman  as  a  phys 
ical  study,  a  possible  verification  of  some  of  his  theories, 
was  an  object  of  interest,  and  he  readily  promised  Eva 
that  he  would  spare  no  pains  in  making  Mr.  St.  John's 
acquaintance. 

"Now,  drolly  enough,"  said  Eva,  "we're  going  to 
have  a  Quaker  preacher  here.  I  went  in  to  invite  Ruth 
and  her  husband;  and  lo,  they  have  got  a  celebrated 


172  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

minister  staying  with  them,  one  Sibyl  Selwyn.  She  is  as 
lovely  as  an  angel  in  a  pressed  crape  cap  and  dove-col 
ored  gown ;  but  what  Mr.  St.  John  will  think  about  her 
I  don't  know." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Henderson,  there'll  be  trouble  there,  de 
pend  on  it,"  said  Dr.  Campbell.  "  He  won't  recognize 
her  ordination,  and  very  likely  she  won't  recognize  his. 
You  see,  I  was  brought  up  among  the  Friends.  I  know 
all  about  them.  If  your  friend  Sibyl  should  have  a  *  con 
cern  '  laid  on  her  for  your  Mr.  St.  John,  she  would  tell 
him  some  wholesome  truths." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Eva.  u  I  hope  she  won't  have  a 
'  concern  '  the  very  first  evening.  It  would  be  embar 
rassing." 

"  Oh,  no ;  to  tell  the  truth,  these  Quaker  preachers  are 
generally  delightful  women,"  said  Dr.  Campbell.  "I'm 
sure  I  ought  to  say  so,  for  my  good  aunt  that  brought 
me  up  was  one  of  them,  and  I  don't  doubt  that  Sibyl 
Selwyn  will  prove  quite  an  addition  to  your  circle." 

Well,  the  evening  came,  and  so  did  all  the  folks. 
But  what  they  said  and  did,  must  be  told  in  another 
chapter. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

THE  MINISTER'S  VISIT. 

MR.  ST.  JOHN  was  sitting  in  his  lonely  study,  con 
templating  with  some  apprehension  the  possibilities 
of  the  evening. 

Perhaps  few  women  know  how  much  of  an  ordeal 
general  society  is  to  many  men.  Women  are  naturally 
social  and  gregarious,  and  have  very  little  experience  of 
the  kind  of  shyness  that  is  the  outer  bark  of  many 
manly  natures,  in  which  they  fortify  all  the  more  sensi 
tive  part  of  their  being  against  the  rude  shocks  of  the 
world. 

As  we  said,  Mr.  St.  John's  life  had  been  that  of  a 
recluse  and  scholar,  up  to  the  time  of  his  ordination  as 
a  priest.  He  was,  by  birth  and  education,  a  New  En 
gland  Puritan,  with  all  those  habits  of  reticence  and 
self-control  which  a  New  England  education  enforces. 
His  religious  experiences,  being  those  of  reaction  from 
a  sterile  and  severe  system  of  intellectual  dogmatism, 
still  carried  with  them  a  tinge  of  the  precision  and  nar 
rowness  of  his  early  life.  His  was  a  nature  like  some  of 
the  streams  of  his  native  mountains,  inclining  to  cut  for 
itself  straight,  deep,  narrow  currents ;  and  all  his  religious 
reading  and  thinking  had  run  in  one  channel.  As  to 
social  life,  he  first  began  to  find  it  among  his  inferiors ; 
among  those  to  whom  he  came,  not  as  a  brother  man, 
but  as  an  authoritative  teacher — a  master,  divinely  ap 
pointed,  set  apart  from  the  ordinary  ways  of  men.  In 
his  role  of  priest  he  felt  strong.  In  the  belief  of  his 
divine  and  sacred  calling,  he  moved  among  the  poor 


174  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

and  ignorant  with  a  conscious  superiority,  as  a  being  of 
a  higher  sphere.  There  was  something  in  this  which 
was  a  protection  to  his  natural  diffidence ;  he  seemed 
among  his  parishioners  to  feel  surrounded  by  a  certain 
sacred  atmosphere  that  shielded  him  from  criticism. 
But  to  mingle  in  society  as  man  with  man,  to  lay  aside 
the  priest  and  be  only  the  gentleman,  appeared  on  near 
approach  a  severe  undertaking.  As  a  priest  at  the  altar 
he  was  a  privileged  being,  protected  by  a  kind  of  divine 
aureole,  like  that  around  a  saint.  In  general  society  he 
was  but  a  man,  to  make  his  way  only  as  other  men  ;  and, 
as  a  man,  St.  John  distrusted  and  undervalued  himself. 
As  he  thought  it  over,  he  inly  assented  to  the  truth  of 
what  Eva  had  so  artfully  stated — that  this  ordeal  of 
society  was  indeed,  for  him,  the  true  test  of  self-sacrifice. 
Like  many  other  men  of  refined  natures,  he  was  nerv 
ously  sensitive  to  personal  influences.  The  social  sphere 
of  those  around  him  affected  him,  through  sympathy, 
almost  as  immediately  as  the  rays  of  the  sun  impress  the 
daguerreotype  plate;  but  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  subject 
himself  to  the  ordeal  the  more  because  he  dreaded  it. 
"  After  all,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  what  is  my  faith  worth, 
if  I  cannot  carry  it  among  men  ?  Do  I  hold  a  lamp 
with  so  little  oil  in  it  that  the  first  wind  will  blow  it 
out?" 

It  was  with  such  thoughts  as  these  that  he  started 
out  on  his  usual  afternoon  tour  of  visiting  and  minis 
tration  in  one  of  the  poorest  alleys  of  his  neighbor 
hood. 

As  he  was  making  his  way  along,  a  little  piping  voice 
was  heard  at  his  elbow : 

"Mr.  St.  Don;  Mr.  St.  Don." 

He  looked  hastily  down  and  around,  to  meet  the  gaze 
of  a  pair  of  dark  childish  eyes  looking  forth  from  a 
thin,  sharp  little  face.  Gradually,  he  recognized  in  the 


THE   MINISTER'S    VISIT.  175 

thin,  barefoot  child,  the  little  girl  whom  he  had  seen  in 
Angie's  class,  leaning  on  her. 

"What  do  you  want,  my  child  ?" 

"  Mother's  took  bad,  and  Poll's  gone  to  wash  for  her. 
They  told  me  to  watch  till  you  came  round,  and  call 
you.  Mother  wants  to  see  you." 

"  Well,  show  me  the  way,"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  affably, 
taking  the  thin,  skinny  little  hanoT. 

The  child  took  him  under  an  alley-way,  into  a  dark, 
back  passage,  up  one  or  two  rickety  staircases,  into 
an  attic,  where  lay  a  woman  on  a  poor  bed  in  the 
corner. 

The  room  was  such  a  one  as  his  work  made  only 
too  familiar  to  him — close,  dark,  bare  of  comforts,  yet 
not  without  a  certain  lingering  air  of  neatness  and  self- 
respect.  The  linen  of  the  bed  was  clean,  and  the  woman 
that  lay  there  had  marks  of  something  refined  and  de 
cent  in  her  worn  face.  She  was  burning  with  fever; 
evidently,  hard  work  and  tiouble  had  driven  her  to  the 
breaking  point. 

"Well,  my  good  woman,  what  can  I  do  for  you?'* 
said  Mr.  St.  John. 

The  woman  roused  from  a  feverish  sleep  and  looked 
at  him. 

"  Oh,  sir,  please  send  her  here.  She  said  she  would 
come  any  time  I  needed  her,  and  I  want  her  now." 

"Who  is  she  ?     Who  do  you  mean?" 

"Please,  sir,  she  means  my  teacher,"  said  the  child, 
with  a  bright,  wise  look  in  her  thin  little  face.  "  It's 
Miss  Angie.  Mother  wants  her  to  come  and  talk  to 
father;  father's  getting  bad  again." 

"He  isn't  a  bad  man,"  put  in  the  woman,  "ex 
cept  they  get  him  to  drink;  it's  the  liquor.  God 
knows  there  never  was  a  kinder  man  than  John  used 
to  be." 


176  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Where  is  he?  I  will  try  to  see  him,"  said  Mr.  St. 
John. 

"Oh,  don't;  it  won't  do  any  good.  He  hates  minis 
ters;  he  wouldn't  hear  you;  but  Miss  Angie  he  will 
hear;  he  promised  her  he  wouldn't  drink  any  more,  but 
Ben  Jones  and  Jim  Price  have  been  at  him  and  got  him 
off  on  a  spree.  O  dear!" 

At  this,  moment  a  feeble  wail  was  heard  from  the 
basket  cradle  in  the  corner,  and  the  little  girl  jumped 
from  the  bed,  and  in  an  important,  motherly  way,  began 
to  soothe  an  indignant  baby,  who  put  up  his  stomach 
and  roared  loudly  after  the  manner  of  his  kind,  aston 
ished  and  angry  at  not  finding  the  instant  solace  and 
attention  which  his  place  in  creation  demanded. 

Mr.  St.  John  looked  on  in  a  kind  of  silent  helpless 
ness,  while  the  little  skinny  creature  lifted  a  child  who 
seemed  almost  as  large  as  herself  and  proceeded  to 
soothe  and  assuage  his  ill  humor  by  many  inexplicable 
arts,  till  she  finally  quenched  his  cries  in  a  sucking- 
bottle,  and  peace  was  restored. 

"  The  only  person  in  the  world  that  can  do  John  any 
good,"  resumed  the  woman,  when  she  could  be  heard, 
"is  Miss  Angie.  John  would  turn  any  man,  specially 
any  minister,  out  of  the  house,  that  said  a  word  about 
his  ways ;  but  he  likes  to  have  Miss  Angie  come  here. 
She  has  been  here  Saturday  afternoons  and  read  stories 
to  the  children,  and  taught  them  little  songs,  and  John 
always  listens,  and  she  almost  got  him  to  promise  he 
would  give  up  drinking ;  she  has  such  pretty  ways  of 
talking,  a  man  can't  get  mad  with  her.  What  I  want  is, 
can't  you  tell  her  John's  gone,  and  ask  her  to  come  to 
me?  He'll  be  gone  two  days  or  more,  and  when  he 
comes  back  he'll  be  sorry — he  always  is  then;  and  then 
if  Miss  Angie  will  talk  to  him;  you  see  she's  so  pretty, 
and  dresses  so  pretty.  John  says  she  is  the  brightest, 


THE  MINISTER'S    VISIT.  177 

prettiest  lady  he  ever  saw,  and  it  sorter  pleases  him  that 
she  takes  notice  of  us.  John  always  puts  his  best  foot 
foremost  when  she  is  round.  John's  used  to  being  with 
gentlefolk,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh;  "he  knows  a  lady 
when  he  sees  her." 

"  Well,  my  good  woman,"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  "  I  shall 
see  Miss  Angie  this  evening,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  I 
shall  tell  her  all  about  this.  Meanwhile,  how  are  you 
off?  Do  you  need  money  now?" 

"  I  am  pretty  well  off,  sir.  He  took  all  my  last  week's 
money  when  he  went,  but  Poll  has  gone  to  my  wash- 
place  to-day,  and  I  told  her  to  ask  for  pay.  I  hope 
they'll  send  it." 

"If  they  don't,"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  "here  is  some 
thing  to  keep  things  going,"  and  he  slipped  a  bill  into 
the  woman's  hand. 

"Thank  you,  sir.  When  I  get  up,  if  you'll  please  give 
me  some  washing,  I'll  make  it  square.  I've  been  held 
good  at  getting  up  linen." 

Poor  woman!  She  had  her  little  pride  of  inde 
pendence,  and  her  little  accomplishment — she  could 
wash  and  iron !  There  she  felt  strong !  Mr.  St.  John 
allowed  her  the  refuge,  and  let  her  consider  the  money 
as  an  advance,  not  a  charity. 

He  turned  away,  and  went  down  the  cracked  and 
broken  stairs  with  the  thought  struggling  in  an  unde 
fined  manner  in  his  breast,  how  much  there  was  of  pas 
toral  work  which  transcended  the  power  of  man,  and 
required  the  finer  intervention  of  woman.  With  all,  there 
came  a  glow  of  shy  pleasure  that  there  was  a  subject  of 
intercommunication  opened  between  him  and  Angie, 
something  definite  to  talk  about ;  and  to  a  diffident  man 
a  definite  subject  is  a  mine  of  gold. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

OUR    FIRST    THURSDAY. 

THE  Henderson's  first  "Evening"  was  a  social  suc 
cess.  The  little  parlors  were  radiant  with  the  blaze 
of  the  wood-fire,  which  gleamed  and  flashed  and  made 
faces  at  itself  in  the  tall,  old-fashioned  brass  andirons, 
and  gave  picturesque  tints  to  the  room. 

Eva's  tea-table  was  spread  in  one  corner,  dainty  with 
its  white  drapery,  and  with  her  pretty  wedding-present 
of  china  upon  it — not  china  like  Miss  Dorcas  Vander- 
heyden's,  of  the  real  old  Chinese  fabric,  but  china  fresh 
from  the  modern  improvements  of  Paris,  and  so  adorned 
with  violets  and  grasses  and  field  flowers  that  it  made  a 
December  tea-table  look  like  a  meadow  where  one  could 
pick  bouquets.  Every  separate  tea-cup  and  saucer  was 
an  artist's  study,  and  a  topic  for  conversation. 

The  arrangement  of  the  rooms  had  been  a  day's 
work  of  careful  consideration  between  Eva  and  Angel- 
ique.  There  was  probably  not  a  perch  or  eyrie  access 
ible  by  chairs,  tables,  or  ottomans,  where  these  little 
persons  had  not  been  mounted,  at  divers  times  of  the 
day,  trying  the  effect  of  various  floral  decorations.  The 
amount  of  fatigue  that  can  be  gone  through  in  the  mere 
matter  of  preparing  one  little  set  of  rooms  for  an  evening 
reception,  is  something  that  men  know  nothing  about; 
only  the  sisterhood  could  testify  to  that  frantic  "fanati 
cism  of  the  beautiful "  which  seizes  them  when  an  even 
ing  company  is  in  contemplation,  and  their  house  is  to 
put,  so  to  speak,  its  best  foot  forward.  Many  an  aching 
back  and  many  a  drooping  form  could  testify  how  the 


OUR  FIRST   THURSDAY.  179 

woman  spends  herself  in  advance,  in  this  sort  of  altar 
dressing  for  home  worship. 

But,  as  a  consequence,  the  little  rooms  were  bowers  of 
beauty.  The  pictures  were  overshadowed  with  nodding 
wreaths  of  pressed  ferns  and  bright  bitter-sweet  berries, 
with  glossy  holly  leaves ;  the  statuettes  had  backgrounds 
of  ivy  which  threw  out  their  whiteness.  Harry's  little 
workroom  adjoining  the  parlor  had  become  a  green 
alcove,  where  engravings  and  books  were  spread  out 
under  the  shade  of  a  German  student-lamp.  Every 
where  that  a  vase  of  flowers  could  make  a  pretty  show, 
there  was  a  vase  of  flowers,  though  it  was  December,  and 
the  ground  frozen  like  lead.  For  the  next  door  neigh 
bor,  sweet  Ruth  Baxter,  had  clipped  and  snipped  every 
rosebud,  and  mignonette  blossom,  and  even  a  splendid 
calla  lily,  with  no  end  of  scarlet  geranium,  and  sent 
them  in  to  Eva;  and  Miss  Dorcas  had  cut  away  about 
half  of  an  ancient  and  well-kept  rose-geranium,  which 
was  the  apple  of  her  eye,  to  help  out  her  little  neighbor. 
So  they  reveled  in  flowers,  without  cutting  those  which 
grew  on  Eva's  own  bushes,  which  were  all  turned  to  the 
light  and  arranged  in  appropriate  situations,  blossoming 
their  best.  The  little  dining-room  also  was  thrown 
open,  and  dressed,  and  adorned  with  flowers,  pressed 
ferns,  berries,  and  autumn  leaves;  with  a  distant  perspec 
tive  of  light  in  it,  that  there  might  be  a  place  of  with 
drawal  and  quiet  chats  over  books  and  pictures.  In 
every  spot  were  disposed  objects  to  start  conversation. 
Books  of  autographs,  portfolios  of  sketches,  photographs 
of  distinguished  people,  stereoscopic  views,  with  stereo 
scope  to  explain  them, — all  sorts  of  intervening  means  and 
appliances  by  which  people,  not  otherwise  acquainted, 
should  find  something  to  talk  about  in  common. 

Eva  was  admirably  seconded  by  her  friends,  from 
long  experience  versed  in  the  art  of  entertaining.  Mrs. 


180  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Van  Arsdel,  gentle,  affable,  society-loving,  and  with  a 
quick  tact  at  reading  the  feelings  of  others,  was  a  host 
in  herself.  She  at  once  took  possession  of  Miss  Dorcas 
Vanderheyden,  who  came  in  a  very  short  dress  of  rich 
India  satin,  and  very  yellow  and  mussy  but  undeniably 
precious  old  lace,  and  walked  the  rooms  with  a  high- 
shouldered  independence  of  manner  most  refreshing  in 
this  day  of  long  trains  and  modern  inconveniences. 

"Sensible  old  girl,"  was  Jim  Fellows's  comment  in 
Alice's  ear  as  Miss  Dorcas  marched  in;  for  which,  of 
course,  he  got  a  reproof,  and  was  ordered  to  remember 
and  keep  himself  under. 

As  to  Mrs.  Betsey,  with  her  white  hair,  and  lace  cap 
with  lilac  ribbons,  and  black  dress,  with  a  flush  of 
almost  girlish  timidity  in  her  pink  cheeks,  she  won  an 
instant  way  to  the  heart  of  Angelique,  who  took  her  arm 
and  drew  her  to  a  cosy  arm-chair  before  a  table  of  en 
gravings,  and  began  an  animated  conversation  on  a  book 
of  etchings  of  the  "  Old  Houses  of  New  York."  These 
were  subjects  on  which  Mrs.  Betsey  could  talk,  and  talk 
entertainingly.  They  carried  her  back  to  the  days  of 
her  youth;  bringing  back  scenes,  persons,  and  places 
long  forgotten,  her  knowledge  of  which  was  full  of  enter 
tainment.  Angelique  wonderingly  saw  her  transfigured 
before  her  eyes.  It  seemed  as  if  an  after-glow  from  the 
long  set  sun  of  youthful  beauty  flashed  back  in  the  old, 
worn  face,  as  her  memory  went  back  to  the  days  of 
youth  and  hope.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  the  old  and 
faded  to  feel  themselves  charming  once  more,  even  for 
an  hour;  and  Mrs.  Betsey  looked  into  the  blooming 
face  and  wide  open,  admiring,  hazel  eyes  of  Angelique, 
and  felt  that  she  was  giving  pleasure,  that  this  charming 
young  person  was  really  delighted  to  hear  her  talk.  It 
was  one  of  those  "cups  of  cold  water"  that  Angelique 
was  always  giving  to  neglected  and  out-of-the-way  peo- 


OUR  FIRST   THURSDAY.  181 

pie,  without  ever  thinking  that  she  did  so,  or  why  she 
did  it,  just  because  she  was  a  sweet,  kind-hearted,  loving 
little  girl. 

When  Mr.  St.  John,  with  an  apprehensive  spirit,  ad 
ventured  his  way  into  the  room,  he  felt  safe  and  at  ease 
in  a  moment.  All  was  light,  and  bright,  and  easy  — 
nobody  turned  to  look  at  him,  and  it  seemed  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world  to  thread  his  way  through  busy  chat 
ting  groups  to  where  Eva  made  a  place  for  him  by  her 
side  at  the  tea-table,  passed  him  his  cup  of  tea,  and 
introduced  him  to  Dr.  Campbell,  who  sat  on  her  other 
side,  cutting  the  leaves  of  a  magazine. 

"You  see,"  said  Eva,  laughing,  "I  make  our  Doctor 
useful  on  the  Fourier  principle.  He  is  dying  to  get  at 
those  magazine  articles,  so  I  let  him  cut  the  leaves  and 
take  a  peep  along  here  and  there,  but  I  forbid  reading — 
in  our  presence,  men  have  got  to  give  over  absorbing, 
and  begin  radiating.  Doesn't  St.  Paul  say,  Mr.  St.  John, 
that  if  women  are  to  learn  anything  they  are  to  ask  their 
husbands  at  home?  and  doesn't  that  imply  that  their 
husbands  at  home  are  to  talk  to  them,  and  not  sit  reading 
newspapers?" 

"  I  confess  I  never  thought  of  that  inference  from  the 
passage,"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  smiling. 

"  But  the  modern  woman,"  said  Dr.  Campbell,  "  scorns 
to  ask  her  husband  at  home.  She  holds  that  her  hus 
band  should  ask  her." 

"Oh,  well,  I  am  not  the  modern  woman.  I  go  for 
the  old  boundaries  and  the  old  privileges  of  my  sex ;  and 
besides,  /  am  a  good  church  woman  and  prefer  to  ask 
my  husband.  But  I  insist,  as  a  necessary  consequence, 
that  he  must  hear  me  and  answer  me,  as  he  cannot  do  if 
he  is  reading  newspapers  or  magazines.  Isn't  that  case 
fairly  argued,  Mr.  St.  John?" 

lc  I  don't  see  but  it  is." 


182  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Well,  then,  the  spirit  of  it  applies  to  the  whole  of 
your  cultured  and  instructive  sex.  Men,  in  the  presence 
of  women,  ought  always  to  be  prepared  to  give  them 
information,  to  answer  questions,  and  make  themselves 
generally  entertaining  and  useful." 

"You  see,  Mr.  St.  John,"  said  Dr.  Campbell,  "that 
Mrs.  Henderson  has  a  dangerous  facility  for  generalizing. 
Set  her  to  interpreting  and  there's  no  saying  where  her 
inferences  mightn't  run." 

"I'd  almost  release  Mr.  St.  John  from  my  rules,  to 
allow  him  to  look  over  this  article  of  yours,  though,  Dr. 
Campbell,"  said  Eva.  "  Harry  has  read  it  to  me,  and  I 
said,  along  in  different  parts  of  it,  if  ministers  only  knew 
these  things,  how  much  good  they  might  do!" 

"What  is  the  article?" 

"  It  is  simply  something  I  wrote  on  '  Abnormal  Influ 
ences  upon  the  WTill;'  it  covers  a  pretty  wide  ground  as 
to  the  question  of  human  responsibility  and  the  recovery 
of  criminals,  and  all  that." 

Mr.  St.  John  remembered  at  this  moment  the  case  of 
the  poor  woman  whom  he  had  visited  that  afternoon, 
and  the  periodical  fatality  which  was  making  her  family 
life  a  shipwreck,  and  he  turned  to  Dr.  Campbell  a  face 
so  full  of  eager  inquiry  and  dawning  thought  that  Eva 
felt  that  the  propitious  moment  was  come  to  leave  them 
together,  and  instantly  she  moved  from  her  seat  between 
them,  to  welcome  a  new  comer  who  was  entering  the 
room. 

"I've  got  them  together,"  she  whispered  to  Harry  a 
few  minutes  after,  as  she  saw  that  the  two  were  turned 
towards  each  other,  apparently  intensely  absorbed  in  con 
versation. 

The  two  might  have  formed  a  not  unapt  personifica 
tion  of  flesh  and  spirit.  Dr.  Campcell,  a  broad-shoul 
dered,  deep-breathed,  long-limbed  man,  with  the  proudly 


OUR  FIRST   THURSDAY.  183 

set  head  and  quivering  nostrils  of  a  high-blooded  horse — 
an  image  of  superb  physical  vitality:  St.  John,  so  deli 
cately  and  sparely  built,  with  his  Greek  forehead  and  clear 
blue  eye,  the  delicate  vibration  of  his  cleanly  cut  lips, 
and  the  cameo  purity  of  every  outline  of  his  profile. 
Yet  was  he  not  without  a  certain  air  of  vigor,  the  out 
shining  of  spiritual  forces.  One  could  fancy  Campbell 
as  the  Berserker  who  could  run,  race,  wrestle,  dig,  and 
wield  the  forces  of  nature,  and  St.  John  as  the  poet  and 
orator  who  could  rise  to  higher  regions  and  carry  souls 
upward  with  him.  It  takes  both  kinds  to  make  up  a 
world. 

And  now  glided  into  the  company  the  vision  of  two 
women  in  soft,  dove-colored  silks,  with  white  crape  ker 
chiefs  crossed  upon  their  breasts,  and  pressed  crape 
caps  bordering  their  faces  like  a  transparent  aureole. 
There  was  the  neighbor,  Ruth  Baxter,  round,  rosy,  young, 
blooming,  but  dressed  in  the  straitest  garb  of  her  sect. 
With  her  back  turned,  you  might  expect  to  see  an  aged 
woman  stricken  in  years,  so  prim  and  antique  was  the 
fashion  of  her  garments ;  but  when  her  face  was  turned, 
there  was  the  rose  of  youth  blooming  amid  the  cool 
snows  of  cap  and  kerchief.  The  smooth  pressed  hair 
rippled  and  crinkled  in  many  a  wave,  as  if  it  would  curl 
if  it  dared,  and  the  round  blue  eyes  danced  with  a  scarce 
suppressed  light  of  cheer  that  might  have  become  mirth- 
fulness,  if  set  free;  but  yet  the  quaint  primness  of  her 
attire  set  off  her  womanly  charms  beyond  all  arts  of  the 
toilet. 

Her  companion  was  a  matronly  person,  who  might 
be  fifty  or  thereabouts.  She  had  that  calm,  command 
ing  serenity  that  comes  to  woman  only  from  the  habitual 
exaltation  of  the  spiritual  nature.  Sibyl  Selwyn  was 
known  in  many  lands  as  one  of  the  most  zealous  and 
best  accepted  preachers  of  her  sect.  Her  life  had  been 


184  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

an  inspiration  of  pity  and  mercy;  and  she  had  been  in 
far  countries  of  the  earth,  where  there  was  sin  to  be 
reproved  or  sorrow  to  be  consoled,  a  witness  to  testify 
and  a  medium  through  whom  guilt  and  despair  might 
learn  something  of  the  Divine  Pity. 

She  bore  about  with  her  a  power  of  personal  pres 
ence  very  remarkable.  Her  features  were  cast  in  large 
and  noble  mould;  her  clear  cut,  wide-open  gray  eyes 
had  a  penetrating  yet  kind  expression,  that  seemed 
adapted  both  to  search  and  to  cheer,  and  went  far  to 
justify  the  opinion  of  her  sect,  which  attributed  to  Sibyl 
in  an  eminent  degree  the  apostolic  gift  of  the  discerning 
of  spirits.  Somehow,  with  her  presence  there  seemed  to 
come  an  atmosphere  of  peace  and  serenity,  such  as  one 
might  fancy  clinging  about  even  the  raiment  of  one  just 
stepped  from  a  higher  sphere.  Yet,  so  gliding  and  so  dove- 
like  was  the  movement  by  which  the  two  had  come  in — so 
perfectly,  cheerfully,  and  easily  had  they  entered  into  the 
sympathies  of  the  occasion,  that  their  entrance  made  no 
more  break  or  disturbance  in  the  social  circle  than  the 
stealing  in  of  a  ray  of  light  through  a  church  window. 

Eva  had  risen  and  gone  to  them  at  once,  had  seated 
them  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  little  tea-table  and 
poured  their  tea,  chatting  the  while  and  looking  into  their 
serene  faces  with  a  sincere  cordiality  which  was  reflected 
back  from  them  in  smiles  of  confidence. 

Sibyl  admired  the  pictures,  flowers,  and  grasses  on 
her  tea-cup  with  the  naive  interest  of  a  child ;  for  one 
often  remarks,  in  intercourse  with  her  sect,  how  the 
aesthetic  sense,  unfrittered  and  unworn  by  the  petting  of 
self-indulgence,  is  prompt  to  appreciate  beauty. 

Eva  felt  a  sort  of  awed  pleasure  in  Sibyl's  admira 
tion  of  her  pretty  things,  as  if  an  angel  guide  were 
stooping  to  play  with  her.  She  felt  in  her  presence  like 
one  of  earth's  unweaned  babies. 


OUR  FIRST   THURSDAY.  185 

St.  John,  in  one  of  the  pauses  of  the  conversation, 
looked  up  and  saw  this  striking  head  and  face  opposite 
to  him ;  a  head  reminding  him  of  some  of  those  saintly 
portraitures  of  holy  women  in  which  Overbeck  delights. 
We  have  described  him  as  peculiarly  impressible  under 
actual  social  influences.  It  was  only  the  week  before 
that  an  application  had  been  made  to  him  for  one 
Sibyl  Selwyn  to  hold  a  meeting  in  his  little  chapel,  and 
sternly  refused.  His  idea  of  a  female  preacher  had  been 
largely  blended  with  the  mediaeval  masculine  contempt 
of  woman  and  his  horror  of  modern  woman  public 
teachers  and  lecturers.  When  this  serene  vision  rose 
like  an  exhalation  before  him,  he  did  not  at  first  recall 
the  applicant  for  his  chapel,  but  he  looked  at  her  ad 
miringly  in  a  sort  of  dazed  wonder,  and  inquired  of  Dr. 
Campbell  in  a  low  voice,  "  Who  is  that  ?" 

"Oh,"  said  Dr.  Campbell,  "don't  you  know?  that's 
the  Quaker  preacher,  Sibyl  Selwyn;  the  woman  who  has 
faced  and  put  down  the  devil  in  places  where  you  couldn't 
and  I  wouldn't  go." 

St.  John  felt  the  blood  flush  in  his  cheeks,  and  a  dim 
idea  took  possession  of  him  that,  if  some  had  entertained 
angels  unawares,  others  unawares  had  rejected  them. 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Campbell,  "that  woman  has  been 
alone,  at  midnight,  through  places  where  you  and  I  could 
not  go  without  danger  of  our  heads ;  and  she  has  said 
words  to  bar-tenders  and  brothel-keepers  that  would  cost 
us  our  lives.  But  she  walks  out  of  it  all,  as  calm  as  you 
see  her  to-night.  I  know  that  kind  of  woman — I  was 
brought  up  among  them.  They  are  an  interesting  physi 
ological  study;  the  over-cerebration  of  the  spiritual 
faculties  among  them  occasions  some  very  peculiar  facts 
and  phenomena.  I  should  like  to  show  you  a  record  I 
have  kept.  It  gives  them  at  times  an  almost  miraculous 
ascendancy  over  others.  I  fancy,"  he  said  carelessly, 


186  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"that  your  legends  of  the  saints  could  furnish  a  good 
many  facts  of  the  same  sort." 

At  this  moment,  Eva  came  up  in  her  authoritative 
way  as  mistress  of  ceremonies,  took  Mr.  St.  John  by  the 
arm,  and,  walking  across  with  him,  seated  him  by  Sibyl 
Selwyn,  introduced  them  to  each  other,  and  left  them. 
St.  John  was  embarrassed,  but  Sibyl  received  him  with 
the  perfect  composure  in  which  she  sat  enthroned. 

"Arthur  St.  John,"  she  said,  "I  am  glad  to  meet 
thee.  I  am  interested  in  thy  work  among  the  poor  of 
this  quarter,  and  have  sought  the  Lord  for  thee  in  it." 

"  I  am  sure  I  thank  you,"  said  St.  John,  thus  sudden 
ly  reduced  to  primitive  elements  and  spoken  to  on  the 
simple  plane  of  his  unvarnished  humanity.  It  is  seldom, 
after  we  come  to  mature  years  and  have  gone  out  into 
the  world,  that  any  one  addresses  us  simply  by  our  name 
without  prefix  or  addition  of  ceremony.  It  is  the  prov 
ince  only  of  rarest  intimacy  or  nearest  relationship,  and 
it  was  long  since  St.  John  had  been  with  friend  or  rela 
tion  who  could  thus  address  him.  It  took  him  back  to 
childhood  and  his  mother's  knee.  He  was  struggling 
with  a  vague  sense  of  embarrassment,  when  he  remem 
bered  the  curt  and  almost  rude  manner  in  which  he  had 
repelled  her  overture  to  speak  in  his  chapel,  and  the 
contempt  he  had  felt  for  her  at  the  time.  In  the  pres 
ence  of  the  clear,  saintly  face,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had 
been  unconsciously  guilty  of  violating  a  shrine.  He 
longed  to  apologize,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  begin. 

"  I  feel,"  he  said,  "  that  I  am  inexperienced  and  that 
the  work  is  very  great.  You,"  he  added,  "have  had 
longer  knowledge  of  it  than  I ;  perhaps  I  might  learn 
something  of  you." 

"  Thou  wilt  be  led,"  said  Sibyl,  with  the  same  assured 
calmness,  "be  not  afraid." 

"  I  am  sorry — I  was  sorry,"  said  St.  John,  hesitating, 


OUR  FIRST   THURSDAY.  187 

"  to  refuse  the  help  you  offered  in  speaking  in  my  chapel, 
but  it  is  contrary  to  the  rules  of  the  church." 

"Be  not  troubled.  Thee  follows  thy  light.  Thee 
can  do  no  otherways.  Thee  is  but  young  yet,"  she  said, 
with  a  motherly  smile. 

"I  did  not  know  you  personally  then,"  he  said.  "I 
should  like  to  talk  more  with  you,  some  time.  I  should 
esteem  it  a  favor  to  have  you  tell  me  some  of  your  ex 
periences." 

"  Some  time,  if  we  can  sit  together  in  stillness,  I  might 
have  something  given  me  for  thee ;  this  is  not  the  time," 
said  Sibyl,  with  quiet  graciousness. 

A  light  laugh  seemed  to  cut  into  the  gravity  of  the 
conversation. 

Both  turned.  Angelique  was  the  center  of  a  gay 
group  to  whom  she  was  telling  a  droll  story.  Angie  had 
a  gift  for  this  sort  of  thing;  and  Miss  Dorcas  and  Mrs. 
Betsey,  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  and  Mr.  Van  Arsdel  were  gath 
ered  around  her  as,  with  half-pantomime,  half-mimicry, 
she  was  giving  a  street  scene  in  one  of  her  Sunday-school 
visitations.  St.  John  laughed  too;  he  could  not  help 
it.  In  a  moment,  however,  he  seemed  to  recollect  him 
self,  and  sighed  and  said : 

"  It  seems  sometimes  strange  to  me  that  we  can  allow 
ourselves  to  laugh  in  a  world  like  this.  She  is  only  a 
child  or  she  couldn't." 

Sibyl  looked  tenderly  at  Angelique.  "It  is  her  gift," 
she  said.  "  She  is  one  of  the  children  of  the  bride- 
chamber,  who  cannot  mourn  because  the  bridegroom  is 
with  them.  It  would  be  better  for  thee,  Arthur  St.  John, 
to  be  more  a  child.  Where  the  spirit  of  the  Lord  is, 
there  is  liberty." 

St.  John  was  impressed  by  the  calm  decision  of  this 
woman's  manner,  and  the  atmosphere  of  peace  and  as 
surance  around  her.  The  half-mystical  character  of  her 


188  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

words  fell  in  with  his  devout  tendencies,  and  that  strange, 
indefinable  something  that  invests  some  persons  with  in 
fluence  seemed  to  be  with  her,  and  he  murmured  to  him 
self  the  words  from  Comus — 

"  She  fables  not,  and  I  do  feel  her  words 
Set  off  by  some  superior  power." 

Mr.  St.  John  had  not  for  a  moment  during  that 
whole  evening  lost  the  consciousness  that  Angelique  was 
in  the  room.  Through  that  double  sense  by  which  two 
trains  of  thought  can  be  going  on  at  the  same  time,  he 
was  sensible  of  her  presence  and  of  what  she  was  doing, 
through  all  his  talks  with  other  people.  He  had  given 
one  glance,  when  he  came  into  the  room,  to  the  place 
where  she  was  sitting  and  entertaining  Mrs.  Betsey,  and 
without  any  apparent  watchfulness  he  was  yet  conscious 
of  every  movement  she  made  from  time  to  time.  He 
knew  when  she  dropped  her  handkerchief,  he  knew  when 
she  rose  to  get  down  another  book,  and  when  she  came 
to  the  table  and  poured  for  Mrs.  Betsey  another  cup  of 
tea.  A  subtle  exhilaration  was  in  the  air.  He  knew  not 
why  everything  seemed  so  bright  and  cheerful ;  it  is  as 
when  a  violet  or  an  orange  blossom,  hid  in  a  distant  part 
of  a  room,  fills  the  air  with  a  vague  deliciousness. 

He  dwelt  dreamily  on  Sibyl's  half  mystical  words, 
and  felt  as  if  an  interpreting  angel  had  sanctioned  the 
charm  that  he  found  in  this  bright,  laughing  child.  He 
liked  to  call  her  a  child  to  himself,  it  was  a  pleasant  little 
nook  into  which  he  could  retreat  from  a  too  severe  scru 
tiny  of  his  feelings  towards  her;  for,  quite  unknown  to 
himself,  St.  John's  heart  was  fast  slipping  off  into  the 
good  old  way  of  Eden. 

But  we  leave  him  for  a  peep  at  other  parties.  It  is 
amusing  to  think  how  many  people  in  one  evening  com 
pany  are  weaving  and  winding  threads  upon  their  own 


OUR  FIRST   THURSDAY.  189 

private,  separate  spools.  Jim  Fellows,  in  the  dining- 
room,  was  saying  to  Alice : 

"  I'm  going  to  bring  Hal  Stephens  and  Ben  Hubert 
to  you  this  evening;  and  by  George,  Alice,  I  want  you  to 
look  after  them  a  little,  as  you  can.  They  are  raw  news 
paper  boys,  tumbled  into  New  York ;  and  nobody  cares  a 
hang  for  them.  Nobody  does  care  a  hang  for  any 
stranger  body,  you  know.  They  haven't  a  decent  place 
to  visit,  nor  a  woman  to  say  a  word  to  them ;  and  yet  I 
tell  you  they're  good  fellows.  Everybody  curses  news 
paper  reporters  and  that  sort  of  fellow.  Nobody  has  a 
good  word  for  them.  It's  small  salary,  and  many  kicks 
and  cuffs  they  get  at  first;  and  yet  that's  the  only  way  to 
get  on  the  papers,  and  make  a  man  of  yourself  at  last ; 
and  so,  as  I've  got  up  above  the  low  rounds,  I  want  to 
help  the  boys  that  are  down  there,  and  I'll  tell  you,  Alice, 
it'll  do  'em  lots  of  good  to  know  you. " 

And  so  Alice  was  gracious  to  the  new-comers  and 
made  them  welcome,  and  showed  them  pictures,  and 
drew  them  out  to  talk,  and  made  them  feel  that  they 
were  entertaining  her. 

Some  women  have  this  power  of  divining  what  a  man 
can  say,  and  giving  him  courage  to  say  it.  Alice  was 
one  of  these ;  people  wondered  when  they  left  her  how 
they  had  been  made  to  talk  so  well.  It  was  the  best  and 
truest  part  of  every  one's  nature  that  she  gave  courage 
and  voice  to.  This  power  of  young  girls  to  ennoble 
young  men  is  unhappily  one  of  which  too  often  they  are 
unconscious.  Too  often  the  woman,  instead  of  being  a 
teacher  in  the  higher  life,  is  only  a  flatterer  of  the  weak 
nesses  and  lower  propensities  of  the  men  whose  admira 
tion  she  seeks. 

St.  John  felt  frightened  and  embarrassed  with  his 
message  to  Angie.  He  had  dwelt  on  it,  all  his  way  to  the 
house,  as  an  auspicious  key  to  a  conversation  which  he 


190  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

anticipated  with  pleasure ;  yet  the  evening  rolled  by,  and 
though  he  walked  round  and  round,  and  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  conversed  with  this  and  that  one,  he  did  not 
come  to  the  point  of  speaking  to  Angie.  Sometimes  she 
was  talking  to  somebody  else  and  he  waited;  sometimes 
she  was  not  with  anybody  else,  and  then  he  waited  lest 
his  joining  her  should  be  remarked.  He  did  not  stop  to 
ask  himself  why  on  earth  it  should  be  remarked  any 
more  than  if  he  had  spoken  to  Alice  or  Eva,  or  anybody 
else,  but  he  felt  as  if  it  would  be. 

At  last,  however,  after  making  several  circles  about 
the  table  where  she  sat  with  Mrs.  Betsey,  he  sat  down  by 
them,  and  delivered  his  message  with  a  formal  precision, 
as  if  he  had  been  giving  her  a  summons.  Angie  was  all 
sympathy  and  sweetness,  and  readily  said  she  would  go 
and  see  the  poor  woman  the  very  next  day,  and  then  an 
awkward  pause  ensued.  She  was  a  little  afraid  of  him  as 
a  preternaturally  good  man,  and  began  to  wonder  whether 
she  had  been  laughing  too  loud,  or  otherwise  misbehav 
ing,  in  the  gaity  of  her  heart,  that  evening. 

So,  after  a  rather  dry  pause,  Mr.  St.  John  uttered  some 
commonplaces  about  the  books  of  engravings  before  them, 
and  then,  suddenly  seeming  to  recollect  something  he  had 
forgotten,  crossed  the  room  to  speak  to  Dr.  Campbell. 

"  Dear  me,  child,  and  so  that  is  your  rector,"  said 
Mrs.  Betsey.  "  Isn't  he  a  little  stiff?" 

"  I  believe  he  is  not  much  used  to  society,"  said 
Angie  ;  "but  he  is  a  very  good  man." 

The  evening  entertainment  had  rather  a  curious  finale. 
A  spirit  of  sociability  had  descended  upon  the  company, 
and  it  was  one  of  those  rare  tides  that  come  sometimes 
where  everybody  is  having  a  good  time,  and  nobody  looks 
at  one's  watch;  and  so,  ten  o'clock  was  long  past,  and 
eleven  had  struck,  and  yet  there  was  no  movement  for 
dissolving  the  session. 


OUR     FIRST   THURSDAY.  191 

Across  the  way,  old  Dinah  had  watched  the  bright 
windows  with  longing  eyes,  until  finally  the  spirit  of  the 
occasion  was  too  strong  for  her,  and,  bidding  Jack  lie 
down  and  be  a  good  dog,  she  left  her  own  precincts  and 
ran  across  to  the  kitchen  of  the  festal  scene,  to  pick  up 
some  crumbs  for  her  share. 

Jack  looked  at  her  in  winking  obedience  as  she  closed 
the  kitchen  door,  being  mindful  in  his  own  dog's  head  of 
a  small  slip  of  a  pantry  window  which  had  served  his 
roving  purposes  before  now.  The  moment  Dinah  issued 
from  the  outer  door,  Jack  bounced  from  the  pantry  win 
dow  and  went  padding  at  a  discreet  distance  from  her 
heels.  Sitting  down  on  the  front  door-mat  of  the  festive 
mansion,  he  occupied  himself  with  his  own  reflections 
till  the  door  opening  for  a  late  comer  gave  him  an  op 
portunity  to  slip  in  quietly. 

Jack  used  his  entrance  ticket  with  discretion,  watched, 
waited,  reconnoitered,  till  finally,  seeing  an  unemployed 
ottoman  next  Mrs.  Betsey,  he  suddenly  appeared  in  the 
midst,  sprang  up  on  the  ottoman  with  easy  grace,  sat  up 
on  his  hind  paws,  and  waved  his  front  ones  affably  to  the 
public. 

The  general  tumult  that  ensued,  the  horror  of  Miss 
Dorcas,  the  scolding  she  tried  to  give  Jack,  the  storm  of 
applause  and  petting  which  greeted  him  in  all  quarters, 
confirming  him,  as  Miss  Dorcas  remarked,  in  his  evil 
ways, — all  these  may  better  be  imagined  than  described. 

"A  quarter  after  eleven,  sister!" 

"  Can  it  be  possible  ?"  said  Mrs.  Betsey.  "  No  wonder 
Jack  came  to  bring  us  home." 

Jack  seconded  the  remark  with  a  very  staccato  bark 
and  a  brisk  movement  towards  the  door,  where,  with 
much  laughing,  many  hand  shakings,  ardent  protesta 
tions  that  they  had  had  a  delightful  evening,  and  prom 
ises  to  come  again  next  week,  the  company  dispersed. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

RAKING      UP      THE      FIRE. 

THE  cream  of  an  evening  company  is  the  latter  end 
of  it,  after  the  more  ceremonious  have  slipped 
away  and  only  "  we  and  our  folks  "  remain  to  croon  and 
rake  up  the  fire. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  Angelique,  and  Marie 
went  home  in  the  omnibus.  Alice  staid  to  spend  the 
night  with  Eva,  and  help  put  up  the  portfolios,  and  put 
back  the  plants,  and  turn  the  bower  back  into  a  work 
room,  and  set  up  the  vases  of  flowers  in  a  cool  place 
where  they  could  keep  till  morning;  because,  you  know 
— you  who  are  versed  in  these  things — that  flowers  in 
December  need  to  be  made  the  most  of,  in  order  to  go  as 
far  as  possible. 

Bolton  yet  lingered  in  his  arm-chair,  in  his  favorite 
corner,  gazing  placidly  at  the  coals  of  the  fire.  Dr. 
Campbell  was  solacing  himself,  after  the  unsatisfied  long 
ings  of  the  evening,  with  seeing  how  his  own  article 
looked  in  print,  and  Jim  Fellows  was  helping  miscella 
neously  in  setting  back  flower-pots,  re-arranging  books, 
and  putting  chairs  and  tables,  that  had  been  arranged 
festively,  back  into  humdrum  household  places.  Mean 
while,  the  kind  of  talk  was  going  on  that  usually  follows 
a  social  venture — a  sort  of  review  of  the  whole  scene  and 
of  all  the  actors. 

"Well,  Doctor,  what  do  you  think  of  our  rector?" 
said  Eva,  tapping  his  magazine  briskly. 

He  lowered  his  magazine  and  squared  himself  round 
gravely. 


RAKING    UP    THE  FIRE.  193 

"  That  fellow  hasn't  enough  of  the  abdominal  to 
carry  his  brain  power,"  he  said.  "Splendid  head — a  lit 
tle  too  high  in  the  upper  stories  and  not  quite  heavy 
enough  in  the  basement.  But  if  he  had  a  good  broad, 
square  chest,  and  a  good  digestive  and  blood-making 
apparatus,  he'd  go.  The  fellow  wants  blood  ;  he  needs 
mutton  and  beef,  and  plenty  of  it.  That's  what  he 
needs.  What's  called  common  sense  is  largely  a  matter 
of  good  diet  and  digestion." 

"Oh,  Doctor,  you  materialistic  creature!"  said  Eva, 
"  to  think  of  talking  of  a  clergyman  as  if  he  were  a 
horse — to  be  managed  by  changing  his  feed  !" 

"  Certainly,  a  man  must  be  a  good  animal  before  he 
can  be  a  good  man." 

"Well,"  said  Alice,  "all  I  know  is,  that  Mr,  St.John 
is  perfectly,  disinterestedly,  heart  and  soul  and  body,  de 
voted  to  doing  good  among  men ;  and  if  that  is  not  noble 
and  grand  and  godlike,!  don't  know  what  is." 

"  Well,"  said  Dr.  Campbell,  "  I  have  a  profound  re 
spect  for  all  those  fellows  that  are  trying  to  mop  out  the 
Atlantic  Ocean ;  and  he  mops  cheerfully  and  with  good 
courage." 

"It's  perfectly  hateful  of  you,  Doctor,  to  talk  so," 
said  Eva. 

"  Well,  you  know  I  don't  go  in  for  interfering  with 
nature — having  noble,  splendid  fellows  waste  and  wear 
themselves  down,  to  keep  miserable  scalawags  and  ill- 
begotten  vermin  from  dying  out  as  they  ought  to.  Na 
ture  is  doing  her  best  to  kill  off  the  poor  specimens  of 
the  race,  begotten  of  vice  and  drunkenness ;  and  what 
you  call  Christian  charity  is  only  interference." 

"  But  you  do  it,  Doctor ;  you  know  you  do.  Nobody 
does  more  of  that  very  sort  of  thing  than  you  do,  now. 
Don't  you  visit,  and  give  medicine  and  nursing,  and  all 
that,  to  just  such  people  ?" 


194  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  I  may  be  a  fool  for  doing  it,  for  all  that,"  said  the 
Doctor.  "  I  don't  pretend  to  stick  to  my  principles  any 
better  than  most  people  do.  We  are  all  fools,  more  or 
less;  but  I  don't  believe  in  Christian  charity:  it's  all 
wrong — this  doctrine  that  the  brave,  strong  good  speci 
mens  of  the  race  are  to  torment  and  tire  and  worry  their 
lives  out  to  save  the  scum  and  dregs.  Here's  a  man 
who,  by  economy,  honesty,  justice,  temperance  and  hard 
work,  has  grown  rich,  and  has  houses,  and  lands,  and 
gardens,  and  pictures,  and  what  not,  and  is  having  a 
good  time  as  he  ought  to  have,  and  right  by  him  is  an 
other  who,  by  dishonesty,  and  idleness,  and  drinking, 
has  come  to  rags  and  poverty  and  sickness.  Shall  the 
temperate  and  just  man  deny  himself  enjoyment,  and 
spend  his  time,  and  risk  his  health,  and  pour  out  his 
money,  to  take  care  of  the  wife  and  children  of  this 
scalawag  ?  There's  the  question  in  a  nutshell  ?  and  / 
say,  no !  If  scalawags  find  that  their  duties  will  be 
performed  for  them  when  they  neglect  them,  that's  all 
they  want.  What  should  St.  John  live  like  a  hermit  for? 
deny  himself  food,  rest  and  sleep  ?  spend  a  fortune  that 
might  make  him  and  some  nice  wife  happy  and  comfort 
able,  on  drunkards'  wives  and  children?  No  sense  in  it." 

"That's  just  where  Christianity  stands  above  and 
opposite  to  nature,"  said  Bolton,  from  his  corner.  "  Na 
ture  says,  destroy.  She  is  blindly  striving  to  destroy 
the  maimed  and  imperfect.  Christianity  says,  save.  Its 
God  is  the  Good  Shepherd,  who  cares  more  for  the 
one  lost  sheep  than  for  the  ninety  and  nine  that  went 
not  astray." 

"  Yes,"  said  Eva;  "He  who  was  worth  more  than 
all  of  us  put  together,  came  down  from  heaven  to  labor 
and  suffer  and  die  for  sinners." 

"That's  supernaturalism,"  said  Dr.  Campbell.  "I 
don't  know  about  that." 


RAKING    UP    THE  FIRE.  195 

"  That's  what  we  learn  at  church,"  said  Eva,  "  and 
what  we  believe;  and  it's  a  pity  you  don't,  Doctor." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Dr.  Campbell,  lighting  his  cigar, 
previous  to  going  out,  "  I  won't  quarrel  with  you.  You 
might  believe  worse  things.  St.  John  is  a  good  fellow, 
and,  if  he  wants  a  doctor  any  time,  I  told  him  to  call  me. 
Good  night." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  creature?"  said  Eva. 

"  He  talks  wild,  but  acts  right,"  said  Alice. 

"You  had  him  there  about  visiting  poor  folks,"  said 
Jim.  "  Why,  Campbell  is  a  perfect  fool  about  people 
in  distress — would  give  a  fellow  watch  and  chain,  and 
boots  and  shoes,  and  then  scold  anybody  else  that  wanted 
to  go  and  do  likewise." 

"  Well,  I  say  such  discussions  are  fatiguing,"  said 
Alice.  "  I  don't  like  people  to  talk  all  round  the  points 
of  the  compass  so." 

"  Well,  to  change  the  subject,  I  vote  our  evening  a 
success,"  said  Jim.  "  Didn't  we  all  behave  beautifully!" 

"  We  certainly  did,"  said  Eva. 

"Isn't  Miss  Dorcas  a  beauty !"  said  Jim. 

"  Come,  now,  Jim ;  no  slants,"  said  Alice. 

"  I  didn't  mean  any.  Honest  now,  I  like  the  old  girl. 
She's  sensible.  She  gets  such  clothes  as  she  thinks  right 
and  proper,  and  marches  straight  ahead  in  them,  instead 
of  draggling  and  draggletailing  after  fashion ;  and  it's  a 
pity  there  weren't  more  like  her." 

"  Dress  is  a  vile,  tyrannical  Moloch,"  said  Eva.  "We 
are  all  too  much  enslaved  to  it." 

"  I  know  we  are,"  said  Alice.  "  I  think  it's  the  ques 
tion  of  our  day,  what  sensible  women  of  small  means  are 
to  do  about  dress;  it  takes  so  much  time,  so  much 
strength,  so  much  money.  Now,  if  these  organizing, 
convention-holding  women  would  only  organize  a  dress 
reform,  they  would  do  something  worth  while." 


196  W£  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"The  thing  is,"  said  Eva,  "that  in  spite  of  yourself 
you  have  to  conform  to  fashion  somewhat." 

"Unless  you  do  as  your  Quaker  friends  do,"  said 
Bolton. 

"By  George,"  said  Jim  Fellows,  "those  two  were  the 
best  dressed  women  in  the  room.  That  little  Ruth  was 
seductive." 

"Take  care;  we  shall  be  jealous,"  said  Eva. 

"Well,"  said  Bolton,  rising,  "I  must  walk  up  to  the 
printing-office  and  carry  that  corrected  proof  to  Daniels." 

"I'll  walk  part  of  the  way  with  you,"  said  Harry. 
'*  I  want  a  bit  of  fresh  air  before  I  sleep." 


WICKEDNESS,  OR  MISERY? 

" Bolton  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and,  looking  down  on  her. 
said  :  'Poor  child,  have  you  no  mother  ? '  " — p.  197. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A    LOST    SHEEP. 

THE  two  sallied  out  and  walked  arm  in  arm  up  the 
street.  It  was  a  keen,  bright,  starlight  night,  with 
everything  on  earth  frozen  stiff  and  hard,  and  the  stars 
above  sparkling  and  glinting  like  white  flames  in  the  in 
tense  clear  blue.  Just  at  the  turn  of  the  second  street,  a 
woman  who  had  been  crouching  in  a  doorway  rose,  and, 
coming  up  towards  the  two,  attempted  to  take  Harry's 
arm. 

With  an  instinctive  movement  of  annoyance  and  dis 
gust,  he  shook  her  off  indignantly. 

Bolton,  however,  stopped  and  turned,  and  faced  the 
woman.  The  light  of  a  street  lamp  showed  a  face,  dark, 
wild,  despairing,  in  which  the  history  of  sin  and  punish 
ment  were  too  plainly  written.  It  was  a  young  face,  and 
one  that  might  once  have  been  beautiful ;  but  of  all  that 
nothing  remained  but  the  brightness  of  a  pair  of  wonder 
fully  expressive  eyes.  Bolton  advanced  a  step  towards 
her  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and,  looking 
down  on  her,  said : 

"Poor  child,  have  you  no  mother?" 

"Mother!     Oh!" 

The  words  were  almost  shrieked,  and  then  the  woman 
threw  herself  at  the  foot  of  the  lamp-post  and  sobbed 
convulsively. 

"Harry,"  said  Bolton,  "I  will  take  her  to  the  St. 
Barnabas;  they  will  take  her  in  for  the  night." 

Then,  taking  the  arm  of  the  woman,  he  said  in  a 
voice  of  calm  authority,  "Come  with  me." 


198  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

He  raised  her  and  offered  her  his  arm.  "  Child,  there 
is  hope  for  you,"  he  said.  "Never  despair.  I  will  take 
you  where  you  will  find  friends." 

A  walk  of  a  short  distance  brought  them  to  the  door 
of  the  refuge,  where  he  saw  her  received,  and  then  turn 
ing  he  retraced  his  steps  to  Harry. 

"One  more  unfortunate/'  he  said,  briefly,  and  then 
immediately  took  up  the  discussion  of  a  point  in  the 
proof-sheet  just  where  he  had  left  it.  Harry  was  so 
excited  by  the  incident  that  he  could- hardly  keep  up  the 
discussion  which  Bolton  was  conducting. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  after  an  interval,  "who  that 
woman  is,  and  what  is  her  history." 

"The  old  story,  likely,"  said  Bolton. 

"What  is  curious,"  said  Harry,  "is  that  Eva  described 
such  a  looking  woman  as  hanging  about  our  house  the 
other  evening.  It  was  the  evening  when  she  was  going 
over  to  the  Vanderheyden  house  to  persuade  the  old 
ladies  to  come  to  us  this  evening.  She  seemed  then 
to  have  been  hanging  about  our  house,  and  Eva  spoke 
in  particular  of  her  eyes — just  such  singular,  wild,  dark 
eyes  as  this  woman  has." 

"It  may  be  a  mere  coincidence,"  said  Bolton.  "She 
may  have  had  some  errand  on  your  street.  Whatever 
the  case  be,  she  is  safe  for  the  present.  They  will  do 
the  best  they  can  for  her.  She's  only  one  more  grain  in 
the  heap!" 

Shortly  after,  Harry  took  leave  of  Bolton  and  re 
turned  to  his  own  house.  He  found  all  still,  Eva  wait 
ing  for  him  by  the  dying  coals  and  smoking  ashes  of  the 
fire.  Alice  had  retired  to  her  apartment. 

"We've  had  an  adventure,"  he  said. 

"What!  to-night?" 

Harry  here  recounted  the  scene  and  Bolton 's  course, 
and  immediately  Eva  broke  out :  "  There,  Harry,  it  must 


A    LOST  SHEEP.  199 

be  that  very  woman  that  I  saw  the  night  I  was  going 
into  the  Vanderhey den's;  she  seems  to  be  hanging  round 
this  neighborhood.  What  can  she  be?  Tell  me,  Harry, 
had  she  very  brilliant  dark  eyes,  and  a  sort  of  dreadfully 
haggard,  hopeless  look?" 

"  Exactly.  Then  I  was  provoked  at  her  assurance  in 
laying  her  hand  on  my  arm  ;  but  when  I  saw  her  face  I 
was  so  struck  by  its  misery  that  I  pitied  her.  You  ought 
to  have  seen  Bolton;  he  seemed  so  calm  and  command 
ing,  and  his  face,  as  he  looked  down  on  her,  had  a  won 
derful  expression ;  and  his  voice, — you  know  that  heavy, 
deep  tone  of  his, — when  he  spoke  of  her  mother  it  per 
fectly  overcame  her.  She  seemed  almost  convulsed,  but 
he  assumed  a  kind  of  authority  and  led  her  away  to  the 
St.  Barnabas.  Luckily  he  knew  all  about  that,  for  he 
had  talked  with  St.  John  about  it." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  heard  them  talking  about  it  this  very 
evening;  so  it  is  quite  a  providence.  I  do  wonder  who 
she  is  or  what  she  is.  Would  it  do  for  me  to  go  to-mor 
row  and  inquire  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  my  dear,  as  you  could  do  anything. 
They  will  do  all  that  is  possible  there,  and  I  would  not 
advise  you  to  interfere  merely  from  curiosity.  You  can 
do  nothing." 

"Strange!"  said  Eva,  still  looking  in  the  fire  while 
she  was  taking  the  hairpins  out  of  her  hair  and  loosening 
her  neck  ribbon,  "strange,  the  difference  in  the  lot  of 
women.  That  girl  has  been  handsome!  People  have 
loved  her.  She  might  have  been  in  a  home,  happy  like 
me,  with  a  good  husband — now  there  she  is  in  the  cold 
streets.  It  makes  me  very  unhappy  to  think  such  things 
must  be.  You  know  how  Bolton  spoke  of  .God,  the 
Good  Shepherd — how  he  cared  more  for  one  lost  one 
than  for  all  that  went  not  astray.  That  is  so  beautiful — 
I  do  hope  she  will  be  saved." 


200  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"Let  us  hope  so,  darling." 

"  It  seems  selfish  for  me  to  wrap  my  comforts  about 
me,  and  turn  away  my  thoughts,  and  congratulate  myself 
on  my  good  luck — don't  it?" 

"But,  darling,  if  you  can't  do  anything,  I  don't  know 
why  you  should  dwell  on  it.  But  I'll  promise  you  Bolton 
shall  call  and  inquire  of  the  Sisters,  and  if  there  is  any 
thing  we  can  do,  he  will  let  us  know.  But  now  it's  late, 
and  you  are  tired  and  need  rest." 


CHAPTER  XX. 
EVA  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER. 

CONGRATULATE  us,  dear  mother;  we  have  had 
\^  a  success!  Our  first  evening  was  all  one  could 
hope !  Everybody  came  that  we  wanted,  and,  what  is 
quite  as  good  in  such  cases,  everybody  staid  away  that 
we  didn't  want.  You  know  how  it  is ;  when  you 
intend  to  produce  real  acquaintance,  that  shall  ripen 
into  intimacy,  it  is  necessary  that  there  should  be  no 
non-conductors  to  break  the  circle.  There  are  people 
that  shed  around  them  coldness  and  constraint,  as  if  they 
were  made  of  ice,  and  it  is  a  mercy  when  such  people 
don't  come  to  your  parties.  As  it  is,  I  have  had  the 
happiness  to  see  our  godly  rector  on  most  conversable 
terms  with  our  heretic  doctor,  and  each  thinking  better 
of  the  other.  Oh !  and,  what  was  a  greater  triumph  yet, 
I  managed  to  introduce  a  Quaker  preacheress  to  Mr.  St. 
John,  and  had  the  satisfaction  to  see  that  he  was  com 
pletely  charmed  by  her,  as  well  he  may  be.  The  way  it 
came  about,  you  must  know,  is  this : — 

Little  Ruth  Baxter,  our  next  door  neighbor,  has 
received  this  Sibyl  Selwyn  at  her  house,  and  is  going 
with  her  soon  on  one  of  her  preaching  expeditions.  I 
find  it  is  a  custom  of  their  sect  for  the  preachers  to  asso 
ciate  with  themselves  one  or  more  lay  sisters,  who  travel 
with  them,  and  for  a  certain  time  devote  themselves  to 
works  of  charity  and  mercy  under  their  superintendence. 
They  visit  prisons  and  penitentiaries ;  they  go  to  houses 
of  vice  and  misery,  where  one  would  think  a  woman 
would  scarcely  dare  to  go ;  they  reprove  sin,  yet  carry 


202  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

always  messages  of  hope  and  mercy.  Little  Ruth  is  now 
preparing  to  go  with  Sibyl  on  such  a  mission,  and  I  am 
much  interested  in  the  stories  she  tells  me  of  the 
strange  unworldly  experiences  of  this  woman.  It  is  true 
that  these  missions  are  temporary ;  they  seem  to  be  only 
like  what  we  could  suppose  the  visits  of  angels  might 
be — something  to  arouse  and  to  stimulate,  but  not  to 
exert  a  continuous  influence.  What  feeling  they  excite, 
what  good  purposes  and  resolutions  spring  up  under 
their  influence,  they  refer  to  the  organized  charities  of 
Christian  churches  of  whatever  name.  If  Sibyl's  peni 
tents  are  Romanists,  she  carries  them  to  the  Romish 
Sisters;  and  so  with  Methodist,  Baptist,  or  Ritualist, 
wherever  they  can  find  shelter  and  care.  She  seems  to 
regard  her  mission  as  like  that  of  the  brave  Sisters  of 
Charity  who  go  upon  the  field  of  battle  amid  belching 
cannon  and  bursting  shells,  to  bring  away  the  wounded. 
She  leaves  them  in  this  or  that  hospital,  and  is  off  again 
for  more. 

This  she  has  been  doing  many  years,  as  the  spirit 
within  leads  her,  both  in  England  and  in  this  country. 
I  wish  you  could  see  her — I  know  how  you  would  love 
her.  As  for  me,  I  look  up  to  her  with  a  kind  of  awe; 
yet  she  has  such  a  pretty,  simple-hearted  innocence 
about  her.  I  felt  a  little  afraid  of  her  at  first,  and 
thought  all  my  pins  and  rings  and  little  bows  and 
fixtures  would  seem  so  many  sins  in  her  sight;  but  I 
found  she  could  admire  a  bracelet  or  a  gem  as  much  as 
I  did,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  all  my  pretty  things  for  me. 
She  says  so  prettily,  "If  thee  acts  up  to  thy  light,  Eva, 
thee  can  do  no  more."  I  only  wish  that  I  were  as  sure 
as  she  is  that  I  do.  It  is  quite  sweet  of  her,  and  puts  me 
at  ease  in  her  presence.  They  are  going  to  be  gone  all 
this  week  on  some  mission.  I  don't  know  yet  exactly 
where,  but  I  canH  help  feeling  as  if  I  wished  some  angel 


EVA    TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.  203 

woman  like  Sibyl  would  take  me  off  with  her,  and  let  me 
do  a  little  something  in  this  great  and  never  finished 
work  of  helping  and  healing.  I  have  always  had  a  long 
ing  to  do  a  little  at  it,  and  perhaps,  with  some  one  to 
inspire  and  guide  me,  even  I  might  do  some  good. 

This  reminds  me  of  a  strange  incident.  The  other 
night,  as  I  was  crossing  the  street,  I  saw  a  weird-looking 
young  woman,  very  haggard  and  miserable,  who  seemed 
to  be  in  a  kind  of  uncertain  way,  hanging  about  our 
house.  There  was  something  about  her  face  and  eyes 
that  affected  me  quite  painfully,  but  I  thought  nothing 
of  it  at  the  time.  But,  the  evening  after  our  reception, 
as  Harry  and  Bolton  were  walking  about  a  square 
beyond  our  house,  this  creature  came  suddenly  upon 
them  and  took  Harry's  arm.  He  threw  her  off  with  a 
sudden  impulse,  and  then  Bolton,  like  a  good  man,  as  he 
always  is,  and  with  that  sort  of  quiet  self-possession  he 
always  has,  spoke  to  her  and  asked  where  her  mother 
was.  That  word  was  enough,  and  the  poor  thing  began 
sobbing  and  crying,  and  then  he  took  her  and  led  her 
away  to  the  St.  Barnabas,  a  refuge  for  homeless  people 
which  is  kept  by  some  of  our  church  Sisters,  and  there  he 
left  her;  and  Harry  says  he  will  tell  Mr.  St.  John  about 
it,  so  that  he  may  find  out  what  can  be  done  for  her,  if 
anything. 

When  I  think  of  meeting  any  such  case  personally,  I 
feel  how  utterly  weak  and  inexperienced  I  am,  and  how 
utterly  unfit  to  guide  or  help,  though  I  wish  with  my  whole 
heart  I  could  do  something  to  help  all  poor  desolate 
people.  I  feel  a  sort  of  self-reproach  for  being  so  very 
happy  as  I  am  while  any  are  miserable.  To  take 
another  subject, — I  have  been  lately  more  and  more 
intimate  with  Bolton.  You  know  I  sent  you  Caroline's 
letter  about  him.  Well,  really  it  seemed  to  me  such  a 
pity  that  two  who  are  entirely  devoted  to  each  other 


304  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

should  be  living  without  the  least  comfort  of  inter 
communion,  that  I  could  not  help  just  trying  the  least 
little  bit  to  bring  them  together.  Harry  rather  warned 
me  not  to  do  it.  These  men  are  so  prudent;  their 
counsels  seem  rather  cold  to  our  hearts — is  it  not  so, 
mother?  Harry  advised  me  not  to  name  the  subject  to 
Bolton,  and  said  he  would  not  dare  do  it  for  the  world. 
Well,  that's  just  because  he's  a  man ;  he  does  not  know 
how  differently  men  receive  the  approaches  of  a  woman. 
In  fact,  I  soon  found  that  there  was  no  subject  on  which 
Bolton  was  so  all  alive  and  eager  to  hear.  When  I 
had  once  mentioned  Caroline,  he  kept  recurring  to  the 
subject,  evidently  longing  to  hear  more  from  her;  and 
so,  one  way  and  another,  in  firelight  talks  and  moon 
light  walks,  and  times  and  places  when  words  slip  out 
before  one  thinks,  the  whole  of  what  is  to  be  "known  of 
Caroline's  feelings  went  into  his  mind,  and  all  that  might 
be  known  of  his  to  her  passed  into  mine.  I,  in  short, 
became  a  medium.  And  do  you  think  I  was  going  to 
let  her  fret  her  heart  out  in  ignorance  of  anything  I 
could  tell  her?  Not  if  I  know  myself;  in  fact,  I  have 
been  writing  volumes  to  Caroline,  for  I  am  determined 
that  no  people  made  for  each  other  shall  go  wandering 
up  and  down  this  labyrinth  of  life,  missing  their  way  at 
every  turn,  for  want  of  what  could  be  told  them  by  some 
friendly  good  fairy  who  has  the  clue. 

Say  now,  mother,  am  I  imprudent  ?  If  I  am,  I  can't 
help  it;  the  thing  is  done.  Bolton  has  broken  the 
silence  and  written  to  Caroline ;  and  once  letter-writing 
is  begun,  you  see,  the  rest  follows.  Does  it  not? 

Now  the  thing  is  done,  Harry  is  rather  glad  of  it,  as 
he  usually  is  with  the  results  of  my  conduct  when  I  go 
against  his  advice  and  the  thing  turns  out  all  right;  and, 
what's  of  Harry  better  than  that,  when  I  get  into  a  scrape 
by  going  against  his  counsels,  he  never  says,  "  I  told  you 


EVA    TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.  205 

so,"  but  helps  me  out,  and  comforts  me  in  the  loveliest 
manner.  Mother,  dear,  he  does  you  credit,  for  you  had 
the  making  of  him  !  He  never  would  have  been  the  hus 
band  he  is,  if  you  had  not  been  the  mother  you  are. 

You  say  you  are  interested  in  my  old  ladies  across  the 
way. 

Yes,  I  really  flatter  myself  that  our  coming  into  this 
neighborhood  is  quite  a  godsend  to  them.  I  don't  know 
any  that  seemed  to  enjoy  the  evening  more  than  they  two. 
It  was  so  long  since  they  had  been  in  any  society,  and  their 
society  power  had  grown  cramped,  stiff  by  disuse;  but 
the  light  and  brightness  of  our  fireside,  and  the  general 
friendly  cheerfulness,  seemed  to  wake  them  up.  My  sis 
ters  are  admirable  assistants.  They  are  society  girls  in 
the  best  sense,  and  my  dear  little  mamma  is  never  so 
much  herself  as  when  she  is  devoting  herself  to  entertain 
ing  others.  Miss  Dorcas  told  me,  this  morning,  that  she 
was  thankful  on  her  sister's  account  to  have  this  pros 
pect  of  a  weekly  diversion  opened  to  her;  for  that  she 
had  so  many  sorrows  and  suffered  so  much,  it  was 
all  she  could  do  at  times  to  keep  her  from  sinking  in 
utter  despondency.  What  her  troubles  could  have  been 
Miss  Dorcas  did  not  say ;  but  I  know  that  her  marriage 
was  unhappy,  and  that  she  has  lost  all  her  children. 
But,  at  any  rate,  this  acknowledgement  from  her  that  we 
have  been  a  comfort  and  help  to  them  gratifies  me.  It 
shows  me  that  we  were  right  in  thinking  that  we  need 
not  run  beyond  our  own  neighborhood  to  find  society 
full  of  interest  and  do  our  little  part  in  the  kindly 
work  of  humanity.  Oh,  don't  let  me  forget  to  tell  you 
that  that  lovely,  ridiculous  Jack  of  theirs,  that  they  make 
such  a  pet  of,  insisted  on  coming  to  the  party  to  look 
after  them ;  waylaid  the  door,  and  got  in,  and  presented 
himself  in  a  striking  attitude  on  an  ottoman  in  the  midst 
of  the  company,  to  Miss  Dorcas's  profound  horror  and 


206  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS.    . 

our  great  amusement.  Jack  has  now  become  the  "  dog 
of  the  regiment,"  and  we  think  of  issuing  a  season  ticket 
in  his  behalf:  for  everybody  pets  him;  he  helps  to  make 
fun  and  conversation. 

After  all,  my  dear  mother,  I  must  say  a  grateful  word 
in  praise  of  my  Mary.  I  pass  for  a  first-rate  house 
keeper,  and  receive  constant  compliments  for  my  lovely 
house,  its  charming  arrangements,  the  ease  with  which  I 
receive  and  entertain  company,  the  smoothness  and  com 
pleteness  with  which  everything  goes  on;  and  all  the 
while,  in  my  own  conscience,  I  feel  that  almost  all  the 
credit  is  due  to  Mary.  The  taste  in  combination  and 
arrangement  is  mine,  to  be  sure — and  I  flatter  myself  on 
having  some  nice  domestic  theories ;  but  after  all,  Mary's 
knowledge,  and  Mary's  strength,  and  Mary's  neatness 
and  order,  are  the  foundation  on  which  all  the  structure 
is  built.  Of  what  use  would  be  taste  and  beauty  and 
refinement,  if  I  had  to  do  my  own  washing,  or  cook  my 
own  meals,  or  submit  to  the  inroads  of  a  tribe  of  un 
taught  barbarians,  such  as  come  from  the  intelligence 
offices  ?  How  soon  would  they  break  my  pretty  teacups, 
and  overwhelm  my  lovely  bijouterie  with  a  second  Goth 
and  Vandal  irruption !  So,  with  you,  dear  mother,  you 
see  I  do  justice  to  Mary,  strong  and  kind,  whom  nobody 
thinks  of  and  nobody  praises,  and  yet  who  enables  me 
to  do  all  that  I  do.  I  believe  she  truly  loves  me  with 
all  the  warmth  of  an  Irish  heart,  and  I  love  her  in  return ; 
and  I  give  her  this  credit  with  you,  to  absolve  my  own 
conscience  for  taking  so  much  more  than  is  due  to  my 
self  in  the  world.  But  what  a  long  letter  I  am  writing ! 
Writing  to  you  is  talking,  and  you  know  what  a  chatter 
box  I  am;  but  you  won't  be  tired  of  hearing  all  this 
from  us.  Your  loving  EVA. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

BOLTON    AND    ST.  JOHN. 

ST.  JOHN  was  seated  in  his  study,  with  a  book  of 
meditations  before  him  on  which  he  was  endeavor 
ing  to  fix  his  mind.  In  the  hot,  dusty,  vulgar  atmos 
phere  of  modern  life,  it  was  his  daily  effort  to  bring 
around  himself  the  shady  coolness,  the  calm  conventual 
stillness,  that  breathes  through  such  writers  as  St. 
Francis  de  Sales  and  Thomas  a  Kempis,  men  with  a 
genius  for  devotion,  who  have  left  to  mankind  records 
of  the  mile-stones  and  road-marks  by  which  they  trav 
eled  towards  the  highest  things.  Nor  should  the  most 
stringent  Protestant  fail  to  honor  that  rich  and  grand 
treasury  of  the  experience  of  devout  spirits  of  which 
the  Romish  Church  has  been  the  custodian.  The  hymns 
and  prayers  and  pious  meditations  which  come  to  us 
through  this  channel  are  particularly  worthy  of  a  cher 
ishing  remembrance  in  this  dusty,  materialistic  age. 
To  St. John  they  had  a  double  charm,  by  reason  of  their 
contrast  with  the  sterility  of  the  religious  forms  of  his 
early  life.  While  enough  of  the  Puritan  and  Protestant 
remained  in  him  to  prevent  his  falling  at  once  into  the 
full  embrace  of  Romanism,  he  still  regarded  the  old 
fabric  with  a  softened,  poetic  tenderness;  he  "took 
pleasure  in  her  stones  and  favored  the  dust  thereof." 

Nor  is  it  to  be  denied  that  in  the  history  of  the 
Romish  Church  are  records  of  heroism  and  self-devotion 
which  might  justly  inspire  with  ardor  the  son  of  a  line 
of  Puritans.  Who  can  go  beyond  St.  Francis  Xavier  in 
the  signs  of  an  apostle  ?  Who  labored  with  more  utter 


208  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

self-surrender  than  Father  Claver  for  the  poor  negro 
slaves  of  South  America?  And  how  magnificent  are  those 
standing  Orders  of  Charity,  composed  of  men  and  women 
of  that  communion,  that  have  formed  from  age  to  age 
a  life-guard  of  humanity,  devoted  to  healing  the  sick, 
sheltering  and  educating  the  orphans,  comforting  the 
dying ! 

A  course  of  eager  reading  in  this  direction  might 
make  it  quite  credible  even  that  a  Puritan  on  the  rebound 
should  wish  to  come  as  near  such  a  church  as  is  possible 
without  sacrifice  of  conscience  and  reason. 

In  the  modern  Anglican  wing  of  the  English  Church 
St.  John  thought  he  had  found  the  blessed  medium. 
There  he  believed  were  the  signs  of  the  devotion,  the 
heroism  and  self-sacrifice  of  the  primitive  Catholic 
Church,  without  the  hindrances  and  incrustations  of 
superstition.  That  little  record,  "Ten  Years  in  St. 
George's  Mission,"  was  to  him  the  seal  of  their  calling. 
There  he  read  of  men  of  property  devoting  their  entire 
wealth,  their  whole  time  and  strength,  to  the  work  of 
regenerating  the  neglected  poor  of  London.  He  read 
of  a  district  that  at  first  could  be  entered  only  under  the 
protection  of  the  police,  where  these  moral  heroes  began 
their  work  of  love  amid  the  hootings  and  howlings  of 
the  mob  and  threats  of  personal  violence, — the  scoff  and 
scorn  of  those  they  came  to  save ;  and  how  by  the  might 
of  Christian  love  and  patience  these  savage  hearts  were 
subdued,  these  blasphemies  turned  to  prayers ;  and  how 
in  this  dark  district  arose  churches,  schools,  homes  for 
the  destitute,  reformatories  for  the  lost.  No  wonder  St. 
John,  reading  of  such  a  history,  felt,  "  This  is  the  church 
for  me."  Perhaps  a  wider  observation  might  have  shown 
him  that  such  labors  and  successes  are  not  peculiar  to 
the  ritualist,  that  to  wear  the  cross  outwardly  is  not 
essential  to  bearing  the  cross  inwardly,  and  that  without 


BOLTON  AND  ST.    JOHN.  209 

signs  and  the  symbolism  of  devout  forms,  the  spirit  of 
love,  patience  and  self-denial  can  and  does  accomplish 
the  same  results. 

St.  John  had  not  often  met  Bolton  before  that  even 
ing  at  the  Henderson's.  There,  for  the  first  time,  he 
had  had  a  quiet,  uninterrupted  conversation  with  him ; 
and,  from  the  first,  there  had  been  felt  between  them  that 
constitutional  sympathy  that  -often  unites  widely  vary 
ing  natures,  like  the  accord  of  two  different  strings  of  an 
instrument. 

Bolton  was  less  of  an  idealist  than  St.  John,  with  a 
wider  practical  experience  and  a  heavier  mental  caliber. 
He  was  in  no  danger  of  sentimentalism,  and  yet  there 
was  about  him  a  deep  and  powerful  undertone  of  feeling 
that  inclined  him  in  the  same  direction  with  Mr.  St.  John. 
There  are  men,  and  very  strong  men,  whose  natures 
gravitate  towards  Romanism  with  a  force  only  partially 
modified  by  intellectual  convictions :  they  would  be  glad 
to  believe  it  if  they  could. 

Bolton  was  an  instance  of  a  man  of  high  moral  and 
intellectual  organization,  of  sensitive  conscience  and  in 
tense  sensibility,  who,  with  the  highest  ideal  of  manhood 
and  of  the  purposes  to  which  life  should  be  devoted,  had 
come  to  look  upon  himself  as  an  utter  failure.  An 
infirmity  of  the  brain  and  the  flesh  had  crept  upon  him 
in  the  unguarded  period  of  youth,  had  struck  its  poison 
through  his  system,  and  weakened  the  power  of  the  will, 
till  all  the  earlier  part  of  his  life  had  been  a  series  of  the 
most  mortifying  failures.  He  had  fallen  from  situation 
after  situation,  where  he  had  done  work  for  a  season  : 
and,  each  time,  the  agony  of  his  self-reproach  and  despair 
had  been  doubled  by  the  reproaches  and  expostulations 
of  many  of  his  own  family  friends,  who  poured  upon  bare 
nerves  the  nitric  acid  of  reproach.  He  had  seen  the  hair 
of  his  mother  slowly  and  surely  whitening  in  the  sicken- 


210  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

ing  anxieties  and  disappointments  which  he  had  brought. 
Loving  her  with  almost  a  lover's  fondness,  desiring  above 
all  things  to  be  her  staff  and  stay,  he  had  felt  himself  to 
be  to  her  only  an  anxiety  and  a  disappointment. 

When,  at  last,  he  had  gained  a  foothold  and  a  place 
in  the  press,  he  was  still  haunted  with  the  fear  of  recur 
ring  failure.  He  who  has  two  or  three  times  felt  his 
sanity  give  way,  and  himself  become  incapable  of  ra 
tional  control,  never  thereafter  holds  himself  secure. 
And  so  it  was  with  this  overpowering  impulse  to  which 
Bolton  had  been  subjected;  he  did  not  know  at  what 
time  it  might  sweep  over  him  again. 

Of  late,  his  intimacy  had  been  sought  by  Eva,  and 
he  had  yielded  to  the  charm  of  her  society.  It  was 
impossible  for  a  nature  at  once  so  sympathetic  and  so 
transparent  as  hers  to  mingle  intimately  with  another 
without  learning  and  betraying  much.  The  woman's 
tact  at  once  divined  that  his  love  for  Caroline  had  only 
grown  with  time,  and  the  scarce  suppressed  eagerness  with 
which  he  listened  to  any  tidings  from  her  led  on  from 
step  to  step  in  mutual  confidence,  till  there  was  nothing 
more  to  be  told,  and  Bolton  felt  that  the  only  woman  he 
had  ever  loved,  loved  him  in  return  with  a  tenacity  and 
intensity  which  would  be  controlling  forces  in  her  life. 

It  was  with  a  bitter  pleasure  nearly  akin  to  pain  that 
this  conviction  entered  his  soul.  To  a  delicate  moral 
organization,  the  increase  of  responsibility,  with  distrust 
of  ability  to  meet  it,  is  a  species  of  torture.  He  feared 
himself  destined  once  more  to  wreck  the  life  and  ruin 
the  hopes  of  one  dearer  than  his  own  soul,  who  was 
devoting  herself  to  him  with  a  woman's  uncalculating 
fidelity. 

This  agony  of  self-distrust,  this  conscious  weakness 
in  his  most  earnest  resolutions  and  most  fervent  strug 
gles,  led  Bolton  to  wish  with  all  his  heart  that  the  beau- 


BOLTON  AND   ST.    JOHN.  211 

tiful  illusion  of  an  all-powerful  church  in  which  still 
resided  the  visible,  presence  of  Almighty  God  might  be  a 
reality.  His  whole  soul  sometimes  cried  out  for  such  a 
visible  Helper — for  a  church  with  power  to  bind  and 
loose,  with  sacraments  which  should  supplement  human 
weakness  by  supernatural  grace,  with  a  priesthood  com 
petent  to  forgive  sin  and  to  guide  the  penitent.  It  was 
simply  and  only  because  his  clear,  well-trained  intelli 
gence  could  see  no  evidence  of  what  he  longed  to  be 
lieve,  that  the  absolute  faith  was  wanting. 

He  was  not  the  only  one  in  this  perplexed  and  hope 
less  struggle  with  life  and  self  and  the  world  who  has 
cried  out  for  a  visible  temple,  such  as  had  the  ancient 
Jew;  for  a  visible  High-Priest,  who  should  consult  the 
oracle  for  him  and  bring  him  back  some  sure  message 
from  a  living  God. 

When  he  looked  back  on  the  seasons  of  his  failures, 
he  remembered  that  it  was  with  vows  and  tears  and 
prayers  of  agony  in  his  mouth  that  he  had  been  swept 
away  by  the  burning  temptation;  that  he  had  been 
wrenched,  cold  and  despairing,  from  the  very  horns  of 
the  altar.  Sometimes  he  looked  with  envy  at  those 
refuges  which  the  Romish  Church  provides  for  those 
who  are  too  weak  to  fight  the  battle  of  life  alone,  and 
thought,  with  a  sense  of  rest  and  relief,  of  entering  some 
of  those  religious  retreats  where  a  man  surrenders  his 
whole  being  to  the  direction  of  another,  and  ends  the 
strife  by  laying  down  personal  free  agency  at  the  feet 
of  absolute  authority.  Nothing  but  an  unconvinced  in 
tellect — an  inability  to  believe — stood  in  the  way  of  this 
entire  self-surrender.  This  morning,  he  had  sought  Mr. 
St.  John's  study,  to  direct  his  attention  to  the  case  of  the 
young  woman  whom  he  had  rescued  from  the  streets,  the 
night  before. 

Bolton's  own  personal  experience  of  human  weakness 


212  W£  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

and  the  tyranny  of  passion  had  made  him  intensely  piti 
ful.  He  looked  on  the  vicious  and  the  abandoned  as  a 
man  shipwrecked  and  swimming  for  his  life  looks  on  the 
drowning  who  are  floating  in  the  waves  around  him; 
and  where  a  hand  was  wanting,  he  was  prompt  to  stretch 
it  out. 

There  was  something  in  that  young,  haggard  face, 
those  sad,  appealing  eyes,  that  had  interested  him  more 
powerfully  than  usual,  and  he  related  the  case  with  much 
feeling  to  Mr.  St.  John,  who  readily  promised  to  call  and 
ascertain  if  possible  some  further  particulars  about  her. 

"  You  did  the  very  best  possible  thing  for  her,"  said 
he,  "  when  you  put  her  into  the  care  of  the  Church.  The 
Church  alone  is  competent  to  deal  with  such  cases." 

Bolton  ruminated  within  himself  on  the  wild,  dis 
eased  impulses,  the  morbid  cravings  and  disorders,  the 
complete  wreck  of  body  and  soul  that  comes  of  such  a 
life  as  the  woman  had  led,  and  then  admired  the  serene 
repose  with  which  St.  John  pronounced  that  indefinite 
power,  the  CHURCH,  as  competent  to  cast  out  the  seven 
devils  of  the  Magdalen. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  hear  good  news  of  her,"  he 
said ;  "  and  if  the  Church  is  strong  enough  to  save  such 
as  she,  I  shall  be  glad  to  know  that  too." 

"You  speak  in  a  skeptical  tone,"  said  St.  John. 

"  Pardon  me ;  I  know  something  of  the  difficulties, 
physical  and  moral,  which  lie  in  the  way,"  said  Bolton. 

"  To  them  that  believe,  nothing  shall  be  impossible," 
said  St.  John,  his  face  kindling  with  ardor. 

"  And  by  the  Church  do  you  mean  all  persons  who 
have  the  spirit  of  Jesus  Christ,  or  simply  that  portion  of 
them  who  worship  in  the  form  that  you  do?" 

"Come,  now,"  said  St.  John,  "the  very  form  of  your 
question  invites  to  a  long  historic  argument ;  and  I  am 
sure  you  did  not  mean  to  draw  that  on  your  head." 


BOLTON  AND  ST.  JOHN.  213 

"Some  other  time,  though,"  said  Bolton,  "if  you  will 
undertake  to  convince  me  of  the  existence  in  this  world 
of  such  a  power  as  you  believe  in,  you  will  find  me  cer 
tainly  not  unwilling  to  believe.  But,  this  morning,  I  have 
but  a  brief  time  to  spend.  Farewell,  for  the  present." 

And  with  a  hearty  hand-shake  the  two  parted. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

BOLTON    TO    CAROLINE. 

I  HAD  not  thought  to  obtrude  myself  needlessly  on 
you  ever  again.  Oppressed  with  the  remembrance 
that  I  have  been  a  blight  on  a  life  that  might  other 
wise  have  been  happy,  I  thought  my  only  expiation  was 
silence.  But  it  had  not  then  occurred  to  me  that  possi 
bly  you  could  feel  and  be  pained  by  that  silence.  But 
of  late  I  have  been  very  intimate  with  Mrs.  Henderson, 
whose  mind  is  like  those  crystalline  lakes  we  read  of — 
a  pebble  upon  the  bottom  is  evident.  She  loves  you  so 
warmly  and  feels  for  you  so  sympathetically  that,  almost 
unconsciously,  when  you  pour  your  feelings  into  her 
heart,  they  are  revealed  to  me  through  the  transparent 
medium  of  her  nature.  I  confess  that  I  am  still  so  self 
ish  as  to  feel  a  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  you  cannot 
forget  me.  I  cannot  forget  you.  I  never  have  forgotten 
you,  I  believe,  for  a  waking  conscious  hour  since  that 
time  when  your  father  shut  the  door  of  his  house  be 
tween  you  and  me.  I  have  demonstrated  in  my  own 
experience  that  there  may  be  a  double  consciousness  all 
the  while  going  on,  in  which  the  presence  of  one  person 
should  seem  to  pervade  every  scene  of  life.  You  have 
been  with  me,  even  in  those  mad  fatal  seasons  when  I 
have  been  swept  from  reason  and  conscience  and  hope 
— it  has  added  bitterness  to  my  humiliation  in  my  weak 
hours ;  but  it  has  been  motive  and  courage  to  rise  up 
again  and  again  and  renew  the  fight — the  fight  that  must 
last  as  long  as  life  lasts  ;  for,  Caroline,  this  is  so.  In 


BOLTON   TO   CAROLINE.  215 

some  constitutions,  with  some  hereditary  predispositions, 
the  indiscretions  and  ignorances  of  youth  leave  a 
fatal  irremediable  injury.  Though  the  sin  be  in  the 
first  place  one  of  inexperience  and  ignorance,  it  is  one 
that  nature  never  forgives.  The  evil  once  done  can 
never  be  undone;- no  prayers,  no  entreaties,  no  resolu 
tions,  can  change  the  consequences  of  violated  law. 
The  brain  and  nerve  force,  once  vitiated  by  poisonous 
stimulants,  become  thereafter  subtle  tempters  and  trai 
tors,  forever  lying  in  wait  to  deceive  and  urging  to  ruin ; 
and  he  who  is  saved,  is  saved  so  as  by  fire.  Since  it  is 
your  unhappy  fate  to  care  so  much  for  me,  I  owe  to  you 
the  utmost  frankness.  I  must  tell  you  plainly  that  I  am 
an  unsafe  man.  I  am  like  a  ship  with  powder  on  board 
and  a  smouldering  fire  in  the  hold.  I  must  warn  my 
friends  off,  lest  at  any  moment  I  carry  ruin  to  them, 
and  they  be  drawn  down  in  my  vortex.  We  can  be 
friends,  dear  friends  ;  but  let  me  beg  you,  tnink  as  little 
of  mo  as  you  can.  Be  a  friend  in  a  certain  degree,  after 
the  manner  of  the  world,  rationally,  and  with  a  wise 
regard  to  your  own  best  interests — you  who  are  worth' 
five  hundred  times  what  I  am — you  who  have  beauty, 
talent,  energy — who  have  a  career  opening  before  you, 
and  a  most  noble  and  true  friend  in  Miss  Ida;  do  not 
let  your  sympathies  for  a  very  worthless  individual  lead 
you  to  defraud  yourself  of  all  that  you  should  gain  in 
the  opportunities  now  open  to  you.  Command  my  ser 
vices  for  you  in  the  literary  line  when  ever  they  may  be 
of  the  slightest  use.  Remember  that  nothing  in  the 
world  makes  me  so  happy  as  an  opportunity  to  serve 
you.  Treat  me  as  you  would  a  loyal  serf,  whose  only 
thought  is  to  live  and  die  for  you ;  as  the  princess  of 
the  middle  ages  treated  the  knight  of  low  degree,  who 
devoted  himself  to  her  service.  There  is  nothing  you 
could  ask  me  to  do  for  you  that  would  not  be  to  me  a 


216  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

pleasure  ;  and  all  the  more  so,  if  it  involved  any  labor 
or  difficulty.  In  return,  be  assured,  that  merely  by  being 
the  woman  you  are,  merely  by  the  love  which  you  have 
given  and  still  give  to  one  so  unworthy,  you  are  a  con 
stant  strength  to  me,  an  encouragement  never  to  faint 
in  a  struggle  which  must  last  as  long  as  this  life  lasts. 
For  although  we  must  not  forget  that  life,  in  the  best 
sense  of  the  word,  lasts  forever,  yet  this  first  mortal 
phase  of  it  is,  thank  God,  but  short.  There  is  another 
and  a  higher  life  for  those  whose  life  has  been  a  failure 
here.  Those  who  die  fighting — even  though  they  fall, 
many  times  trodden  under  the  hoof  of  the  enemy — will 
find  themselves  there  made  more  than  conquerors 
through  One  who  hath  loved  them. 

In  this  age,  when  so  many  are  giving  up  religion, 
hearts  like  yours  and  mine,  Caroline,  that  know  the  real 
strain  and  anguish  of  this  present  life,  are  the  ones  to 
appreciate  the  absolute  necessity  of  faith  in  the  great 
hereafter.  Without  this,  how  cruel  is  life  !  How  bitter, 
how  even  unjust,  the  weakness  and  inexperience  with 
which  human  beings  are  pushed  forth  amid  the  grind 
ing  and  clashing  of  natural  laws — laws  of  whose  oper 
ation  they  are  ignorant  and  yet  whose  penalties  are  inex 
orable  !  If  there  be  not  a  Guiding  Father,  a  redeeming 
future,  how  dark  is  the  prospect  of  this  life !  and  who 
can  wonder  that  the  ancients,  many  of  the  best  of  them, 
considered  suicide  as  one  of  the  reserved  rights  of  hu 
man  nature  ?  Without  religious  faith,  I  certainly  should. 
I  am  making  this  letter  too  long ;  the  pleasure  of  speak 
ing  to  you  tempts  me  still  to  prolong  it,  but  I  forbear. 
Ever  yours,  devotedly,  BOLTON. 

CAROLINE    TO    BOLTON. 

My  Dear  Friend :  How  can  I  thank  you  for  the  con 
fidence  you  have  shown  me  in  your  letter?     You  were 


CAROLINE    TO  BOLTON.  217 

not  mistaken  in  thinking  that  this  long  silence  has  been 
cruel  to  me.  It  is  more  cruel  to  a  woman  than  it  can 
possibly  be  to  a  man,  because  if  to  him  silence  be  a  pain, 
he  yet  is  conscious  all  the  time  that  he  has  the  power  to 
break  it ;  he  has  the  right  to  speak  at  any  time,  but  a 
woman  must  die  silent.  Every  fiber  of  her  being  says 
this.  She  cannot  speak,  she  must  suffer  as  the  dumb 
animals  suffer. 

I  have,  I  confess,  at  times,  been  bitterly  impatient  of 
this  long  reserve,  knowing,  as  I  did,  that  you  had  not 
ceased  to  feel  what  you  once  felt.  I  saw,  in  our  brief 
interviews  in  New  York,  that  you  loved  me  still.  A 
woman  is  never  blind  to  that  fact,  with  whatever  care  it 
is  sought  to  be  hidden.  I  saw  that  you  felt  all  you 
once  professed,  and  yet  were  determined  to  conceal  it, 
and  treat  with  me  on  the  calm  basis  of  ordinary  friend 
ship,  and  sometimes  I  was  indignant :  forgive  me  the  in 
justice. 

You  see  that  such  a  course  is  of  no  use,  as  a  means  of 
making  one  forget.  To  know  one's  self  passionately  be 
loved  by  another  who  never  avows  it,  is  something  dan 
gerous  to  the  imagination.  It  gives  rise  to  a  thousand 
restless  conjectures,  and  is  fatal  to  peace.  We  can 
reconcile  ourselves  in  time  to  any  certainty;  it  is  only 
when  we  are  called  upon  to  accommodate  ourselves  to 
possibilities,  uncertain  as  vaporous  clouds,  that  we  weary 
ourselves  in  fruitless  efforts. 

Your  letter  avows  what  I  knew  before;  what  you 
often  told  me  in  our  happy  days :  and  I  now  say  in 
return  that  I,  like  you,  have  never  forgotten ;  that  your 
image  and  presence  have  been  to  me  as  mine  to  you, 
ever  a  part  of  my  consciousness  through  all  these  years 
of  separation.  And  now  you  ask  me  to  change  all  this 
into  a  cool  and  prudent  friendship,  after  the  manner  of 
the  world ;  that  is  to  say,  to  take  all  from  you,  to  accept 

K 


218  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

the  entire  devotion  of  your  heart  and  life,  but  be  careful 
to  risk  nothing  in  return,  to  keep  at  a  safe  distance  from 
your  possible  troubles,  lest  I  be  involved. 

Do  you  think  me  capable  of  this?  Is  it  like  me?  and 
what  would  you  think  and  say  to  a  friend  who  should 
make  the  same  proposition  to  you  ?  Put  it  to  yourself : 
what  would  you  think  of  yourself,  if  you  could  be  so 
coldly  wary  and  prudent  with  regard  to  a  friend  who 
was  giving  to  you  the  whole  devotion  of  heart  and 
life? 

No,  dear  friend,  this  is  all  idle  talk.  Away  with  it ! 
I  feel  that  I  am  capable  of  as  entire  devotion  to  you  as  I 
know  you  are  to  me;  never  doubt  it.  The  sad  fatality 
which  clouds  your  life  makes  this  feeling  only  the  more 
intense ;  as  we  feel  for  those  who  are  a  part  of  our  own 
hearts,  when  in  suffering  and  danger.  In  one  respect, 
my  medical  studies  are  an  advantage  to  me.  They  have 
placed  me  at  a  stand-point  where  my  judgment  on  these 
questions  and  subjects  is  different  from  those  of  ordi 
nary  women.  An  understanding  of  the  laws  of  physical 
being,  of  the  conditions  of  brain  and  nerve  forces,  may 
possibly  at  some  future  day  bring  a  remedy  for  such 
sufferings  as  yours.  I  look  for  this  among  the  possible 
triumphs  of  science, — it  adds  interest  to  the  studies  and 
lectures  I  am  pursuing.  I  shall  not  be  to  you  what 
many  women  are  to  the  men  whom  they  love,  an  added 
weight  to  fall  upon  you  if  you  fall,  to  crush  you  under 
the  burden  of  my  disappointments  and  anxieties  and 
distresses.  Knowing  that  your  heart  is  resolute  and 
your  nature  noble,  a  failure,  supposing  such  a  possibility, 
would  be  to  me  only  like  a  fever  or  a  paralysis, — a  sub 
ject  for  new  care  and  watchfulness  and  devotion,  not 
one  for  tears  or  reproaches  or  exhortations. 

There  are  lesions  of  the  will  that  are  no  more  to  be 
considered  subject  to  moral  condemnation  than  a  strain 


CAROLINE    TO   BOLTON.  219 

of  the  spinal  column  or  a  sudden  fall,  from  paralysis. 
It  is  a  misfortune ;  and  to  real  true  affection,  a  misfor 
tune  only  renders  the  sufferer  more  dear  and  redoubles 
devotion. 

Your  letter  gives  me  courage  to  live — courage  to 
pursue  the  course  set  before  me  here.  I  will  make  the 
most  of  myself  that  I  can  for  your  sake,  since  all  I  am 
or  can  be  is  yours.  Already  I  hope  that  I  am  of  use  to 
you  in  opening  the  doors  of  confidence.  Believe  me, 
dear,  nothing  is  so  bad  for  the  health  of  the  mind  or  the 
body  as  to  have  a  constant  source  of  anxiety  and  appre 
hension  that  cannot  be  spoken  of  to  anybody.  The 
mind  thus  shut  within  itself  becomes  a  cave  of  morbid 
horrors.  I  believe  these  unshared  fears,  these  broodings, 
and  dreads  unspoken,  often  fulfill  their  own  prediction 
by  the  unhealthy  states  of  mind  that  they  bring. 

The  chambers  of  the  soul  ought  to  be  daily  opened 
and  aired ;  the  sunshine  of  a  friend's  presence  ought  to 
shine  through  them,  to  dispel  sickly  damps  and  the 
malaria  of  fears  and  horrors.  If  I  could  be  with  you 
and  see  you  daily,  my  presence  should  cheer  you,  my 
faith  in  you  should  strengthen  your  faith  in  yourself. 

For  my  part,  I  can  see  how  the  very  sensitiveness  of 
your  moral  temperament  which  makes  you  so  dread  a 
failure,  exposes  you  to  fail.  I  think  the  near  friends  of 
persons  who  have  your  danger  often  hinder  instead  of 
helping  them  by  the  manifestation  of  their  fears  and 
anxieties.  They  think  there  is  no  way  but  to  "  pile  up 
the  agony,"  to  intensify  the  sense  of  danger  and  respon 
sibility,  when  the  fact  is,  the  subject  of  it  is  feeling  now 
all  the  strain  that  human  nerves  can  feel  without  cracking. 

We  all  know  that  we  can  walk  with  a  cool  head 
across  a  narrow  plank  only  one  foot  from  the  ground. 
But  put  the  plank  across  a  chasm  a  thousand  feet  in 
depth,  and  the  head  swims.  We  have  the  same  capacity 


220  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

in  both  cases;  but,  in  the  latter,  the  awfulness  of  the 
risk  induces  a  nervous  anxiety  that  amounts  to  a  paral 
ysis  of  the  will. 

Don't,  therefore,  let  this  dread  grow  on  you  by  the 
horror  of  lonely  brooding.  Treat  it  as  you  would  the 
liability  to  any  other  disease,  openly,  rationally  and  hope 
fully  ;  and  keep  yourself  in  the  daily  light  and  warmth 
of  sympathetic  intercourse  with  friends  who  understand 
you  and  can  help  you.  There  are  Eva  and  Harry — 
noble,  true  friends,  indebted  to  you  for  many  favors, 
and  devoted  to  you  with  a  loyal  faithfulness.  Let  their 
faith  and  mine  in  you  strengthen  your  belief  in  yourself. 
And  don't,  above  all  things,  take  any  load  of  responsi 
bility  about  my  happiness,  and  talk  about  being  the 
blight  and  shadow  on  my  life.  I  trust  I  am  learning  that 
we  were  sent  into  this  world,  not  to  clamor  for  happi 
ness,  but  to  do  our  part  in  a  life-work.  What  matter  is 
it  whether  I  am  happy  or  not,  if  I  do  my  part  ?  I  know 
all  the  risks  and  all  the  dangers  that  come  from  being 
identified,  heart  and  soul,  with  the  life  of  another  as  I 
am  with  yours.  I  know  the  risks,  and  am  ready  to  face 
them.  I  am  ready  to  live  for  you  and  die  for  you,  and 
count  it  all  joy  to  the  last. 

I  was  much  touched  by  what  you  said  of  those  who 
have  died  defeated  yet  fighting.  Yes,  it  is  my  belief 
that  many  a  poor  soul  who  has  again  and  again  failed 
in  the  conflict  has  yet  put  forth  more  effort,  practiced 
more  self-denial,  than  hundreds  of  average  Christians ; 
and  He  who  knows  what  the  trial  is,  will  judge  them 
tenderly — that  is  to  say,  justly. 

But  for  you  there  must  be  a  future,  even  in  this  life. 
I  am  assured  of  it,  and  you  must  believe  it :  you  must 
believe  with  my  faith,  and  hope  in  my  hope.  Come 
what  will,  I  am,  heart  and  soul  and  forever, 

Yours,  CAROLINE. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE   SISTERS   OF   ST.  BARNABAS. 

WHO  was  St.  Barnabas?  We  are  told  in  the  book 
of  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles  that  he  was  a  man 
whose  name  signified  a  "son  of  consolation."  It  must 
at  once  occur  that  such  a  saint  is  very  much  needed  in 
this  weary  world  of  ours,  and  most  worthy  to  be  the 
patron  of  an  "  order." 

To  comfort  human  sorrow,  to  heal  and  help  the 
desolate  and  afflicted,  irrespective  either  of  their  moral 
worth  or  of  any  personal  reward,  is  certainly  a  noble  and 
praiseworthy  object. 

Nor  can  any  reasonable  objection  be  made  to  the 
custom  of  good  women  combining  for  this  purpose  into 
a  class  or  order,  to  be  known  by  the  name  of  such  a 
primitive  saint,  and  wearing  a  peculiar  livery  to  mark  their 
service,  and  having  rites  and  ceremonials  such  as  to 
them  seem  helpful  for  this  end.  Surely  the  work  is  hard 
enough,  and  weary  enough,  to  entitle  the  doers  thereof  to 
do  it  in  their  own  way,  as  they  feel  they  best  can,  and 
to  have  any  sort  of  innocent  helps  in  the  way  of  signs 
and  symbols  that  may  seem  to  them  desirable. 

Yet  the  Sisters  of  St.  Barnabas  had  been  exposed  to 
a  sort  of  modern  form  of  persecution  from  certain  vigor 
ous-minded  Protestants,  as  tending  to  Romanism.  A 
clamor  had  been  raised  about  them  for  wearing  large 
crosses,  for  bowing  before  altars,  and,  in  short,  for  a 
hundred  little  points  of  Ritualism;  and  it  was  held  that 
a  proper  zeal  for  Protestantism  required  their  ejection 


222  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

from  a  children's  refuge,  where,  with  much  patience  and 
Christian  mildness,  they  were  taking  care  of  sick  babies 
and  teaching  neglected  street  children.  Mrs.  Maria 
Wouvermans,  with  a  committee  of  ladies  equally  zealous 
for  the  order  of  the  church  and  excited  about  the 
dangers  of  Popery,  had  visited  the  refuge  and  pursued 
the  inquisition  even  to  the  private  sleeping  apartments  of 
the  Sisters,  unearthing  every  symptom  of  principle  or 
practice  that  savored  of  approach  to  the  customs  of  the 
Scarlet  Woman ;  and,  as  the  result  of  relentless  inquisi 
tion  and  much  vigorous  catechising,  she  and  her  associ 
ates  made  such  reports  as  induced  the  Committee  of 
Supervision  to  withdraw  the  charity  from  the  Sisters  of 
St.  Barnabas,  and  place  it  in  other  hands.  The  Sisters, 
thus  ejected,  had  sought  work  in  other  quarters  of  the 
great  field  of  human  suffering  and  sorrow.  A  portion  of 
them  had  been  enabled  by  the  charity  of  friends  to  rent 
a  house  to  be  devoted  to  the  purposes  of  nursing  desti 
tute  sick  children,  with  dormitories  also  where  homeless 
women  could  find  temporary  shelter. 

The  house  was  not  a  bit  more  conventual  or  mediae 
val  than  the  most  common-place  of  New  York  houses. 
It  is  true,  one  of  the  parlors  had  been  converted  into  a 
chapel,  dressed  out  and  arranged  according  to  the 
preferences  of  these  good  women.  It  had  an  altar,  with 
a  gilded  cross  flanked  by  candles,  which  there  is  no 
denying  were  sometimes  lighted  in  the  day-time.  The 
altar  was  duly  dressed  with  white,  red,  green,  violet  or 
black,  according  as  the  traditional  fasts  or  feasts  of  the 
Church  came  round.  There  is  no  doubt  that  this  simple 
chapel,  with  its  flowers,  and  candles,  and  cross,  and  its 
little  ceremonial,  was  an  immense  comfort  and  help  to 
these  good  women  in  the  work  that  they  were  doing. 
But  the  most  rigid  Protestant,  who  might  be  stumbled  by 
this  little  attempt  at  a  chapel,  would  have  been  melted 


THE   SISTERS  OF  ST.  BARNABAS.  223 

into  accord  when  he  went  into  the  long  bright  room  full 
of  little  cribs  and  cradles,  where  child  invalids  of  differ 
ent  ages  and  in  different  stages  of  convalesence  were 
made  happy  amid  flowers,  and  toys,  and  playthings,  by 
the  ministration  of  the  good  women  who  wore  the  white 
caps  and  the  large  crosses.  It  might  occur  to  a  thought 
ful  mind,  that  devotion  to  a  work  so  sweetly  unselfish 
might  well  entitle  them  to  wear  any  kind  of  dress  and 
pursue  any  kind  of  method,  unchallenged  by  criticism. 

In  a  neat  white  bed  of  one  of  the  small  dormitories 
in  the  upper  part  of  this  house,  was  lying  in  a  delirious 
fever  the  young  woman  whom  Bolton  had  carried  there 
on  the  night  of  our  story.  The  long  black  hair  had 
become  loosened  by  the  restless  tossing  of  her  head 
from  side  to  side;  her  brow  was  bent  in  a  heavy  frown, 
made  more  intense  by  the  blackness  of  her  eyebrows; 
her  large,  dark  eyes  were  wandering  wildly  to  and  fro 
over  every  object  in  the  room,  and  occasionally  fixing 
themselves  with  a  strange  look  of  inquiry  on  the  Sister 
who,  in  white  cap  and  black  robe,  sat  by  her  bedside, 
changing  the  wet  cloths  on  her  burning  head,  and  moist 
ening  her  parched  lips  from  time  to  time  with  a  spoonful 
of  water. 

"  I  can't  think  who  you  are,"  she  muttered,  as  the 
Sister  with  a  gentle  movement  put  a  iresh,  cool  cloth  on 
her  forehead. 

"Never  mind,  poor  child,"  said  the  sweet  voice  in 
reply;  "try  to  be  quiet." 

"  Quiet !  me  be  quiet ! — that's  pretty  well !  Me  !"  and 
she  burst  into  weak,  hysteric  laughter. 

"  Hush,  hush!"  said  the  Sister,  making  soothing  mo 
tions  with  her  hands. 

"The  wandering  eyes  closed  a  few  moments  in  a 
feverish  drowse.  In  a  moment  more,  she  started  with  a 
wild  look. 


224  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

'* Mother !  mother!  where  are  you ?  I  can't  find  you. 
I've  looked  and  looked  till  I'm  so  tired,  and  I  can't  find 
you.  Mother,  come  to  me, — I'm  sick!" — and  the  girl 
rose  and  threw  out  her  arms  wildly. 

The  Sister  passed  her  arm  round  her  tenderly  and 
spoke  with  a  gentle  authority,  making  her  lie  down  again. 

Then,  in  a  sweet  low  voice,  she  began  singing  a  hymn  : 

"Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  billows  near  me  roll, 
While  the  tempest  still  is  high." 

As  she  sung,  the  dark  sad  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon 
her  with  a  vague,  troubled  questioning.  The  Sister 
went  on : 

"  Hide  me,  O  my  Saviour,  hide, 
Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past, 
Safe  into  the  haven  guide, 
Oh,  receive  my  soul  at  last." 

It  was  just  day-dawn,  and  the  patient  had  waked 
from  a  temporary  stupor  produced  by  a  narcotic  which 
had  been  given  a  few  hours  before  to  compose  her. 

The  purple-and-rose  color  of  dawn  was  just  touching 
faintly  everything  in  the  room.  Another  Sister  entered 
softly,  to  take  the  place  of  the  one  who  had  watched  for 
the  last  four  hours. 

"  How  is  she  ?"  she  said. 

"  Quite  out  of  her  head,  poor  thing.  Her  fever  is 
very  high." 

"We  must  have  the  doctor,"  said  the  other.  "She 
looks  like  a  very  sick  girl." 

"  That  she  certainly  is.  She  slept,  under  the  opiate, 
but  kept  starting,  and  frowning,  and  muttering  in  her 
sleep;  and  this  morning  she  waked  quite  wild." 

"  She  must  have  got  dreadfully  chilled,  walking  so 
late  in  the  street — so  poorly  clad,  too!" 


THE  SISTERS  OF  ST.   BARNABAS.  226 

With  this  brief  conversation,  the  second  sister  as 
sumed  her  place  by  the  bedside,  and  the  first  went  to  get 
some  rest  in  her  own  room. 

As  day  grew  brighter,  the  singing  of  the  matins  in 
the  chapel  came  floating  up  in  snatches;  and  the  sick 
girl  listened  to  it  with  the  same  dazed  and  confused  air 
of  inquiry  with  which  she  looked  on  all  around. 

"Who  is  singing,"  she  said  to  herself.  "It's  pretty, 
and  good.  But  how  came  I  here  ?  I  was  so  cold,  so 
cold — out  there ! — and  now  it's  so  hot.  Oh,  my  head ! 
my  head !" 

A  few  hours  later,  Mr.  St.  John  called  at  the  Refuge 
to  inquire  after  the  new  inmate. 

Mr.  St.  John  was  one  of  the  patrons  of  the  Sisters. 
He  had  contributed  liberally  to  the  expenses  of  the 
present  establishment,  and  stood  at  all  times  ready  to 
assist  with  influence  and  advice. 

The  Refuge  was,  in  fact,  by  the  use  of  its  dormito 
ries,  a  sort  of  receiving  station  for  homeless  and  desolate 
people,  where  they  might  find  temporary  shelter,  where 
their  wants  might  be  inquired  into,  and  help  found  for 
them  according  to  their  need. 

After  the  interview  with  Bolton  had  made  him  ac 
quainted  with  the  state  of  the  case,  Mr.  St.  John  went 
immediately  to  the  Refuge.  He  was  received  in  the  par 
lor  by  a  sweet-faced,  motherly  woman,  with  her  white 
cap  and  black  robe,  and  with  a  large  black  cross  depend 
ing  from  her  girdle.  There  was  about  her  an  air  of  inno 
cent  sanctity  and  seclusion  from  the  out-door  bustle  of 
modern  life  that  was  refreshing. 

She  readily  gave  him  an  account  of  the  new  inmate, 
whose  sad  condition  had  e~xcited  the  sympathy  of  all 
the  Sisters. 

She  had  come  to  them,  she  said,  in  a  state  of  most 
woeful  agitation  and  distress,  having  walked  the  streets 


226  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

on  a  freezing  night  till  a  late  hour,  in  very  insufficient 
clothing.  Immediately  on  being  received,  she  began  to 
Have  violent  chills,  followed  by  burning  fever,  and  had 
been  all  night  tossing  restlessly  and  talking  wildly. 

This  morning,  they  had  sent  for  the  doctor,  who  pro 
nounced  her  in  a  brain  fever,  and  in  a  condition  of 
great  danger.  She  was  still  out  of  her  mind,  and  could 
give  no  rational  account  of  herself. 

"  It  is  piteous  to  hear  her  call  upon  her  mother,"  said 
the  Sister.  "  Poor  child  !  perhaps  her  mother  is  distress 
ing  herself  about  her." 

Mr.  St.  John  promised  to  secure  the  assistance  and 
sympathy  of  some  benevolent  women  to  aid  the  Sisters 
in  their  charge,  and  took  his  leave,  promising  to  call 
daily. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 
EVA  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER  :  When  1  wrote  you  last  we  were 
quite  prosperous,  having  just  come  through  with 
our  first  evening  as  a  great  success ;  and  everybody  since 
has  been  saying  most  agreeable  things  to  us  about  it. 
Last  Thursday,  we  had  our  second,  and  it  was  even 
pleasanter  than  the  last,  because  people  had  got  acquaint 
ed,  so  that  they  really  wanted  to  see  each  other  again. 
There  was  a  most  charming  atmosphere  of  ease  and 
sociability.  Bolton  and  Mr.  St.  John  are  getting  quite 
intimate.  Mr.  St.  John,  too,  develops  quite  a  fine  social 
talent,  and  has  come  out  wonderfully.  The  side  of  a 
man  that  one  sees  in  the  church  and  the  pulpit  is  after 
all  only  one  side,  as  we  have  discovered.  I  find  that  he 
has  quite  a  gift  in  conversation,  when  you  fairly  get  him 
at  it.  Then,  his  voice  for  singing  comes  into  play,  and 
he  and  Angie  and  Dr.  Campbell  and  Alice  make  up  a 
quartette  quite  magnificent  for  non-professionals.  Angie 
has  a  fine  soprano,  and  Alice  takes  the  contralto,  and  the 
Doctor,  with  his  great  broad  shoulders  and  deep  chest, 
makes  a  splendid  bass.  Mr.  St.  John's  tenor  is  really 
very  beautiful.  It  is  one  of  those  penetrating,  sympa 
thetic  voices  that  indicate  both  feeling  and  refinement, 
and  they  are  all  of  them  surprised  and  delighted 
to  find  how  well  they  go  together.  Thursday  evening 
they  went  on  from  thing  to  thing,  and  found  that  they 
could  sing  this  and  that  and  the  other,  till  the  evening 
took  a  good  deal  the  form  of  a  musical.  But  never 
mind,  it  brought  them  acquainted  with  each  other  and 


22$  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

made  them  look  forward  to  the  next  reunion  as  some 
thing  agreeable.  Ever  since,  the  doctor  goes  round 
humming  tunes,  and  says  he  wants  St.  John  to  try  the 
tenor  of  this  and  that,  and  really  has  quite  lost  sight  of 
his  being  anything  else  but  a  musical  brother.  So  here 
is  the  common  ground  I  wanted  to  find  between  them. 

The  doctor  has  told  Mr.  St.  John  to  call  on  him 
whenever  he  can  make  him  useful  in  his  visits  among  the 
poor.  Our  doctor  loves  to  talk  as  if  he  were  a  hard 
hearted,  unbelieving  pirate,  who  didn't  care  a  straw  for 
his  fellow-creatures;  while  he  loses  no  opportunity  to  do 
anybody  or  anything  a  kindness. 

You  know  I  told  you  in  my  last  letter  about  a  girl 
that  Harry  and  Bolton  found  in  the  street,  the  night  of 
our  first  reception,  and  that  they  took  her  to  the  St.  Bar 
nabas  Refuge.  The  poor  creature  has  been  lying  there 
ever  since,  sick  of  a  brain  fever,  caught  by  cold  and  ex 
posure,  and  Dr.  Campbell  has  given  his  services  daily. 
If  she  had  been  the  richest  lady  in  the  land,  he  could 
not  have  shown  more  anxiety  and  devotion  to  her  than 
he  has,  calling  twice  and  sometimes  three  times  a  day, 
and  one  night  watching  nearly  all  night.  She  is  still  too 
low  and  weak  to  give  any  account  of  herself;  all  we 
know  of  her  is  that  she  is  one  of  those  lost  sheep,  to 
seek  whom  the  Good  Shepherd  would  leave  the  ninety 
nine  who  went  not  astray.  I  have  been  once  or  twice  to 
sit  by  her,  and  relieve  the  good  Sisters  who  have  so 
much  else  to  do;  and  Angelique  and  Alice  have  also 
taken  their  turns.  It  seems  very  little  for  us  to  do, 
when  these  good  women  spend  all  their  time  and  all 
their  strength  for  those  who  have  no  more  claim  on  them 
than  they  have  on  us. 

It  is  a  week  since  I  began  this  letter,  and  something 
quite  surprising  to  me  has  just  developed. 

I  told  you  we  had  been  to  help  nurse  the  poor  girl  at 


EVA    TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER. 

the  Sisters',  and  the  last  week  she  has  been  rapidly 
mending.  Well,  yesterday,  as  I  didn't  feel  very  well, 
and  my  Mary  is  an  excellent  nurse,  I  took  her  there  to 
sit  with  the  patient  in  my  place,  when  a  most  strange 
scene  ensued.  The  moment  Mary  looked  on  her,  she 
recognized  her  own  daughter,  who  had  left  her  some 
years  ago  with  a  bad  man.  Mary  had  never  spoken  to 
me  of  this  daughter,  and  I  only  knew,  in  a  sort  of  gen 
eral  way,  that  she  had  left  her  mother  under  some  pain 
ful  circumstances.  The  recognition  was  dreadfully  agi 
tating  to  Mary  and  to  the  poor  girl ;  indeed,  for  some 
time  it  was  feared  that  the  shock  would  produce  a  re 
lapse.  The  Sisters  say  that  the  poor  thing  has  been 
constantly  calling  for  her  mother  in  her  distress. 

It  really  seemed,  for  the  time,  as  if  Mary  were  going 
to  be  wholly  unnerved.  She  has  a  great  deal  of  that  re 
spectable  pride  of  family  character  which  belongs  to  the 
better  class  of  the  Irish,  and  it  has  been  a  bitter  humili 
ation  to  her  to  have  to  acknowledge  her  daughter's 
shame  to  me ;  but  I  felt  that  it  would  relieve  her  to  tell 
the  whole  story  to  some  one,  and  I  drew  it  all  out  of 
her.  This  poor  Maggie  had  the  misfortune  to  be  very 
handsome.  She  was  so  pretty  as  a  little  girl,  her  mother 
tells  me,  as  to  attract  constant  attention  ;  and  I  rather 
infer  that  the  father  and  mother  both  made  a  pet  and 
plaything  of  her,  and  were  unboundedly  indulgent.  The 
girl  grew  up  handsome,  and  thoughtless,  and  self-confi 
dent,  and  so  fell  an  easy  prey  to  a  villain  who  got  her  to 
leave  her  home,  on  a  promise  of  marriage  which  he  never 
kept.  She  lived  with  him  a  while  in  one  place  and 
another,  and  he  became  tired  of  her  and  contrived  to 
place  her  in  a  house  of  evil,  where  she  was  entrapped 
and  enslaved  for  a  long  time.  Having  by  some  means 
found  out  where  her  mother  was  living,  she  escaped  from 
her  employers,  and  hung  round  the  house  irresolutely 


230  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

for  some  time,  wishing  but  fearing  to  present  herself,  and 
when  she  spoke  to  Harry  in  the  street,  the  night  after 
our  party,  she  was  going  in  a  wild,  desperate  way  to  ask 
something  about  her  mother — knowing  that  he  was  the 
man  with  whom  she  was  living. 

Such  seems  to  be  her  story ;  but  I  suppose,  what  with 
misery  and  cold,  and  the  coming  on  of  the  fever,  the 
poor  thing  hardly  had  her  senses,  or  knew  what  she  was 
about — the  fever  must  have  been  then  upon  her. 

So  you  see,  dear  mother,  I  was  wishing  in  my  last 
that  I  could  go  off  with  Sibyl  Selwyn  on  her  mission  to 
the  lost  sheep,  and  now  here  is  one  brought  to  my  very 
door.  Is  not  this  sent  to  me  as  my  work  ?  as  if  the  good 
Lord  had  said,  "  No,  child,  your  feet  are  not  strong 
enough  to  go  over  the  stones  and  briars,  looking  for  the 
lost  sheep ;  you  are  not  able  to  take  them  out  of  the  jaws 
of  the  wolf;  but  here  is  a  poor  wounded  lamb  that  I 
leave  at  your  door — that  is  your  part  of  the  great  work." 
So  I  understand  it,  and  I  have  already  told  Mary  that  as 
soon  as  Maggie  is  able  to  sit  up,  we  will  take  her  home 
with  us,  and  let  her  stay  with  us  till  she  is  strong  and 
well,  and  then  we  will  try  and  put  her  back  into  good 
respectable  ways,  and  keep  her  from  falling  again. 

I  think  persons  in  our  class  of  life  cannot  be  too  con 
siderate  of  the  disadvantages  of  poor  working  women  in 
the  matter  of  bringing  up  children. 

A  very  beautiful  girl  in  that  walk  of  life  is  exposed 
to  solicitation  and  temptation  that  never  come  near  to 
people  in  our  stations.  We  are  guarded  on  all  hands  by 
our  very  position.  I  can  see  in  this  poor  child  the  wreck 
of  what  must  have  been  very  striking  beauty.  Her  hair 
is  lovely,  her  eyes  are  wonderfully  fine,  and  her  hands, 
emaciated  as  she  is,  are  finely  formed  and  delicate. 
Well,  being  beautiful,  she  was  just  like  any  other  young 
girl — her  head  was  turned  by  flattery.  She  was  silly  and 


EVA    TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.  231 

foolish,  and  had  not  the  protections  and  barriers  that  are 
around  us,  and  she  fell.  Well,  then,  we  that  have  been 
more  fortunate  must  help  her  up.  Is  it  not  so? 

So,  dear  Mother,  my  mission  work  is  coming  to  me. 
I  need  not  go  out  for  it.  I  shall  write  more  of  this  in  a 
day  or  two. 

Ever  yours,  EVA. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

AUNT    MARIA    ENDEAVORS    TO    SET    MATTERS    RIGHT. 

MRS.  MARIA  WOUVERMANS  was  one  of  those 
forces  in  creation  to  whom  quiet  is  impossible. 
Watchfulness,  enterprise  and  motion  were  the  laws  of 
her  existence,  as  incessantly  operating  as  any  other  laws 
of  nature. 

When  we  last  saw  her,  she  was  in  high  ill-humor  with 
her  sister,  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  with  Alice  and  Eva,  and  the 
whole  family.  She  revenged  herself  upon  them,  as  such 
good  creatures  know  how  to  do,  by  heaping  coals  of  fire 
on  their  heads  in  the  form  of  ostentatiously  untiring  and 
uncalled-for  labors  for  them  all.  The  places  she  ex 
plored  to  get  their  laces  mended  and  their  quillings 
done  up  and  their  dresses  made,  the  pilgrimages  she 
performed  in  omnibuses,  the  staircases  she  climbed,  the 
men  and  women  whom  she  browbeat  and  circumvented  in 
bargains — all  to  the  advantage  of  the  Van  Arsdel  purse — 
were  they  not  recounted  and  told  over  in  a  way  to  appall 
the  conscience  of  poor,  easy  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  whom 
they  summarily  convicted  of  being  an  inefficient  little 
know-nothing,  and  of  her  girls,  who  thus  stood  arraigned 
for  the  blackest  ingratitude  in  not  appreciating  Aunt 
Maria  ? 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Alice,"  said  Eva,  when  Aunt 
Maria's  labors  had  come  to  the  usual  climax  of  such 
smart  people,  and  laid  her  up  with  a  sick-headache, 
"we  girls  have  just  got  to  make  up  with  Aunt  Maria,  or 
she'll  tear  down  all  New  York.  I  always  notice  that 


AUNT  MARIA'S  ENDEAVORS.  233 

when  she's  out  with  us  she  goes  tearing  about  in  this 
way,  using  herself  up  for  us — doing  things  no  mortal 
wants  her  to  do,  and  yet  that  it  seems  black  ingratitude 
not  to  thank  her  for.  Now,  Alice,  you  are  the  one,  this 
time,  and  you  must  just  go  and  sit  with  her  and  make  up, 
as  I  did." 

"  But,  Eva,  7  know  the  trouble  you  fell  into,  letting 
her  and  mother  entangle  you  with  Wat  Sydney,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  have  it  happen  again.  I  will  not  be  com 
promised  in  any  way  or  shape  with  a  man  whom  I  never 
mean  to  marry." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  think  by  this  time  Aunt  Maria  under 
stands  this,  only  she  wants  you  to  come  back  and  be  lov 
ing  to  her,  and  say  you're  sorry  you  can't,  etc.  After 
all,  Aunt  Maria  is  devoted  to  us  and  is  miserable  when 
we  are  out  with  her." 

"Well,  I  hate  to  have  friends  that  one  must  be  al 
ways  bearing  with  and  deferring  to." 

"Well,  Alice,  you  remember  Mr.  St.  John's  sermons 
on  the  trials  of  the  first  Christians — when  he  made  us  all 
feel  that  it  would  have  been  a  blessed  chance  to  go  to 
the  stake  for  our  religion?" 

"Yes;  it  was  magnificent.  I  felt  a  great  exalta 
tion." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  thought.  It  may  be  as  he 
roic,  and  more  difficult,  to  put  down  our  own  temper  and 
make  the  first  concession  to  an  unreasonable  old  aunt 
who  really  loves  us  than  to  be  martyrs  for  Christ.  No 
body  wants  us  to  be  martyrs  now-a-days;  but  I  think 
these  things  that  make  no  show  and  have  no  glory  are  a 
harder  cross  to  take  up." 

"  Well,  Eva,  I'll  do  as  you  say,"  said  Alice,  after  a  few 
moments  of  silence,  "  for  really  you  speak  the  truth.  I 
don't  know  anything  harder  than  to  go  and  make  conces 
sions  to  a  person  who  has  acted  as  ridiculously  as  Aunt 


234  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Maria  has,  and  who  will  take  all  your  concessions  and 
never  own  a  word  on  her  side." 

"  Well,  dear,  what  I  think  in  these  cases  is,  that  I  am 
not  perfect.  There  are  always  enough  things  where  I 
didn't  do  quite  right  forme  to  confess;  and  as  to  her 
confessing,  that's  not  my  affair.  What  /  have  to  do  is  to 
cut  loose  from  my  own  sins;  they  are  mine,  and  hers 
are  hers." 

"True,"  said  Alice;  "and  the  fact  is,  I  did  speak 
improperly  to  Aunt  Maria.  She  is  older  than  I  am.  I 
ought  not  to  have  said  the  things  I  did.  I'm  hot  tem 
pered,  and  always  say  more  than  I  mean." 

"  Well,  Ally,  do  as  I  did — confess  everything  you  can 
think  of  and  then  say,  as  I  did,  that  you  must  still  be 
firm  upon  one  point;  and,  depend  upon  it,  Aunt  Maria 
will  be  glad  to  be  friends  again." 

This  conversation  had  led  to  an  amelioration  which 
caused  Aunt  Maria  to  appear  at  Eva's  second  reunion  in 
her  best  point  lace  and  with  her  most  affable  company 
manners,  whereby  she  quite  won  the  heart  of  simple 
Mrs.  Betsey  Benthusen,  and  was  received  with  patroniz 
ing  civility  by  Miss  Dorcas.  That  good  lady  surveyed 
Mrs.  Wouvermans  with  an  amicable  scrutiny  as  a  speci 
men  of  a  really  creditable  production  of  modern  New 
York  life.  She  took  occasion  to  remark  to  her  sister 
that  the  Wouvermans  were  an  old  family  of  unquestioned 
position,  and  that  really  Mrs.  Wouvermans  had  acquired 
quite  the  family  air. 

Miss  Dorcas  was  one  of  those  people  who  sit  habitu 
ally  on  thrones  of  judgment  and  see  the  children  of  this 
world  pass  before  them,  with  but  one  idea,  to  determine 
what  she  should  think  of  them.  What  they  were  likely 
to  think  of  her,  was  no  part  of  her  concern.  Her  scruti 
nies  and  judgments  were  extremely  quiet,  tempered  with 
great  moderation  and  Christian  charity,  and  were  so  sel- 


A  UNT  MARIA  'S  ENDEA  VORS.  235 

dom   spoken  to  anybody  else  that  they  did  no  one  any 
harm. 

She  was  a  spectator  at  the  grand  theater  of  life ;  it 
interested  and  amused  her  to  watch  the  acting,  but  she 
kept  her  opinions,  for  the  most  part,  to  herself.  The  re 
unions  at  Eva's  were  becoming  most  interesting  to  her 
as  widening  her  sphere  of  observation.  In  fact,  her 
intercourse  with  her  sister  could  hardly  be  called  society, 
it  was  so  habitually  that  of  a  nurse  with  a  patient.  She 
said  to  her,  of  the  many  things  which  were  in  her  mind, 
only  those  which  she  thought  she  could  bear.  She  was 
always  planning  to  employ  Mrs.  Betsey's  mind  with 
varied  occupations  to  prevent  her  sinking  into  morbid 
gloom,  and  to  say  only  such  things  of  everybody  and 
everything  to  her  as  would  tranquilize  and  strengthen 
her.  To  Miss  Dorcas,  the  little  white-haired  lady  was 
still  the  beautiful  child  of  past  days — the  indiscreet, 
nighty,  pretty  pet,  to  be  watched,  nursed,  governed,  re 
strained  and  cared  for.  As  for  conversation,  in  the 
sense  of  an  unrestricted  speaking  out  of  thoughts  as  they 
arose,  it  was  long  since  Miss  Dorcas  had  held  it  with 
any  human  being.  The  straight,  tall  old  clock  in  the 
corner  was  not  more  lonely,  more  self-contained  and  ret 
icent. 

The  next  day  after  the  re-union,  Aunt  Maria  came  at 
the  appointed  hour,  with  all  due  pomp  and  circumstance, 
to  make  her  call  upon  the  two  sisters,  and  was  received 
in  kid  gloves  in  the  best  parlor,  properly  darkened,  so 
that  the  faces  of  the  parties  could  scarcely  be  seen ;  and 
then  the  three  remarked  upon  the  weather,  the  state  of 
the  atmosphere  to-day  and  its  probable  state  to-morrow. 
Mrs.  Wouvermans  was  properly  complimented  upon  her 
niece's  delightful  re-unions;  whereat  she  drew  herself 
up  with  suitable  modesty,  as  one  who  had  been  the  source 
and  originator  of  it  all — claiming  property  in  charming 


236  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Mrs.  Henderson  as  the  girl  of  her  bringing  up,  the  work 
of  her  hands,  the  specimen  of  her  powers,  marshalled  and 
equipped  by  her  for  the  field  of  life ;  and  in  her  delight 
ful  soirees,  as  in  some  sort  a  result  of  her  management. 
It  may  be  a  consolation  to  those  who  are  ever  called  to 
wrestle  with  good  angels  like  Aunt  Maria,  that  if  they 
only  hold  on  and  overcome  them,  and  hold  their  own 
independent  way,  the  angels,  so  far  from  being  angry, 
will  immediately  assume  the  whole  merit  of  the  result. 
On  the  whole,  Aunt  Maria,  hearing  on  all  sides  flatter 
ing  things  of  Mrs.  Henderson's  lovely  house  and  charm 
ing  evenings,  was  pluming  herself  visibly  in  this  manner. 

Now,  as  Eva,  in  one  of  those  bursts  of  confidence  in 
which  she  could  not  help  pouring  herself  out  to  those 
who  looked  kindly  on  her,  had  talked  over  with  Miss 
Dorcas  all  Aunt  Maria's  objections  to  her  soirees,  and 
her  stringent  advice  against  them,  the  good  lady  was 
quietly  amused  at  this  assumption  of  merit. 

"My!  how  odd,  Dorcas!"  said  Mrs.  Betsey  to  her 
sister,  after  Mrs.  Wouvermans  had  serenely  courtesied 
herself  out.  "Isn't  this  the  'Aunt  Maria'  that  dear 
Mrs.  Henderson  was  telling  you  about,  that  made  all 
those  objections  to  her  little  receptions  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Dorcas. 

"But  how  strange;  she  really  talks  now  as  if  she  had 
started  them." 

"  People  usually  adopt  a  good  thing,  if  they  find  they 
can't  hinder  it,"  said  Miss  Dorcas. 

"I  think  it  is  just  the  oddest  thing  in  the  world; 
in  fact,  I  don't  think  it's  really  honest,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey. 

"It's  the  way  people  always  do,"  said  Miss  Dorcas; 
"  nothing  succeeds  like  success.  Mrs.  Wouvermans  op 
posed  the  plan  because  she  thought  it  wouldn't  go.  Now 
that  she  finds  it  goes,  she  is  so  delighted  she  thinks  *he 
must  have  started  it  herself." 


AUNT  MARIA'S  ENDEAVORS.  237 

In  fact,  Aunt  Maria  was  in  an  uncommonly  loving 
and  genial  frame  about  this  time.  Her  fits  of  petulance 
generally  had  the  good  effect  of  a  clearing-up  thunder- 
shower — one  was  sure  of  clear  skies  for  some  time  after 
wards. 

The  only  difficulty  about  these  charming  periods  of 
general  reconciliation  was  that  when  the  good  lady  once 
more  felt  herself  free  of  the  family,  and  on  easy  terms 
all  around  with  everybody,  she  immediately  commenced 
in  some  new  direction  that  process  of  managing  other 
people's  affairs  which  was  an  inevitable  result  of  her 
nature.  Therefore  she  came,  one  afternoon  not  long 
after,  into  her  sister's  dressing-room  with  an  air  of  pre 
occupation  and  mystery,  which  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  had 
learned  to  dread  as  a  sign  that  Maria  had  something  new 
upon  her  mind. 

Shutting  the  doors  carefully,  with  an  air  of  great  pre 
caution  and  importance,  she  said :  "  Nellie,  I've  been 
wanting  to  talk  to  you ;  something  will  have  to  be  done 
about  Eva :  it  will  never  do  to  let  matters  go  on  as  they 
are  going." 

Mrs.  Van  Arsdel's  heart  began  to  sink  within  her; 
she  supposed  that  she  was  to  be  required  in  some  way  to 
meddle  or  interfere  with  her  daughter.  Now,  if  anything 
was  to  be  done  of  an  unpleasant  nature,  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel 
had  always  far  rather  that  Maria  would  do  it  herself. 
But  the  most  perplexing  of  her  applications  were  when 
she  began  stirring  up  her  ease-loving,  indulgent  self  to 
fulfill  any  such  purposes  on  her  children.  So  she  said, 
in  a  faltering  voice,  "What  is  the  matter  now,  Maria?" 

"Well,  what  should  you  think?"  said  Mrs.  Wouver- 
mans,  emphasizing  the  words.  "  You  know  that  good- 
for-nothing  daughter  of  Mary's  that  lived  with  me,  years 
ago?" 

'*  That  handsome  girl?     To  be  sure." 


238  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Handsome !  the  baggage  !  I've  no  patience  when  I 
think  of  her,  with  her  airs  and  graces ;  dressing  so  that 
she  really  was  mistaken  for  one  of  the  family !  And 
such  impertinence !  I  made  her  walk  Spanish  very 
quick " 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  who  do  you  suppose  this  sick  girl  is  that  An- 
gelique  and  Alice  have  been  helping  take  care  of  in  the 
new  hospital,  or  whatever  you  call  it,  that  those  Popish 
women  have  started  up  there?" 

Now  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  knew  very  well  what  Aunt 
Maria  was  coining  to,  but  she  only  said,  faintly, 

"Well?" 

"  Its  just  thai  girl  and  no  other,  and  a  more  impu 
dent  tramp  and  huzzy  doesn't  live." 

"  It  really  is  very  shocking,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel. 

"  Shocking !  well  I  should  think  it  was,  but  that  isn't 
all.  Eva  actually  has  taken  this  creature  to  her  house, 
and  is  going  to  let  her  stay  there." 

"Oh,  indeed?"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  faintly. 

Now  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  had  listened  sympathetically 
to  Eva  when,  in  glowing  and  tender  words,  she  had 
avowed  her  intention  of  giving  this  help  to  a  poor,  be 
wildered  mother,  and  this  chance  of  recovery  to  an  erring 
child,  but  in  the  sharp,  nipping  atmosphere  of  Aunt 
Maria's  hard,  dry,  selfish  common  sense,  the  thing  looked 
so  utterly  indefensible  that  she  only  breathed  this  faint 
inquiry. 

"Yes,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  "and  it's  all  that  Mary's  art. 
She  has  been  getting  old  and  isn't  what  she  was,  and  she 
means  to  get  both  her  children  saddled  upon  Eva,  who 
is  ignorant  and  innocent  as  a  baby.  Eva  and  her  hus 
band  are  no  more  fit  to  manage  than  two  babes  in  the 
woods,  and  this  set  of  people  will  make  them  no  end  of 
trouble.  The  girl  is  a  perfect  witch,  and  it  will  never  do 


A  UNT  MARIA  'S  ENDEA  VORS.  239 

in  the  world.  You  ought  to  talk  to  her  and  tell  her 
about  the  danger." 

"But,  Maria,  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  it  may  not  be 
Eva's  duty  to  help  Mary  take  care  of  her  daughter." 

"  Well,  if  it  was  a  daughter  that  had  behaved  herself 
decently ;  but  this  creature  is  a  tramp — a  street-walker ! 
It  is  not  respectable  to  have  her  in  the  house  a  minute." 

"  But  where  can  she  go  ?" 

"That's  none  of  our  look  out.  I  suppose  there  are 
asylums,  or  refuges,  or  something  or  other,  for  such 
creatures." 

"  But  if  the  Sisters  could  take  her  in  and  take  care  of 
her,  I'm  sure  Eva  might  keep  her  awhile ;  at  least  till  she 
gets  strong  enough  to  find  some  place." 

"Oh,  those  Sisters!  Don't  tell  me!  I've  no  opinion 
of  them.  Wasn't  I  on  the  committee,  and  didn't  I  find 
crucifixes,  and  rosaries,  and  prie-dieus,  and  the  Lord 
knows  what  of  Popish  trinkets  in  their  rooms?  They 
are  regular  Jesuits,  those  women.  It's  just  like  'em  to 
take  in  tramps  and  nurse  'em. 

"You  know,  Nellie,  I  warned  you  I  never  believed  in 
this  Mr.  St.  John  and  his  goings  on  up  there,  and  I  fore 
see  just  what  trouble  Eva  is  going  to  be  got  into  by 
having  that  sort  of  creature  put  in  upon  her.  Maggie 
was  the  most  conceited,'  impertinent,  saucy  hussy  I  ever 
saw.  She  had  the  best  of  all  chances  in  my  house,  if 
she'd  been  of  a  mind  to  behave  herself,  for  I  give  good 
wages,  pay  punctually,  and  mine  is  about  as  good  a 
house  for  a  young  woman  to  be  trained  in  as  there  is. 
Nobody  can  say  that  Maggie  didn't  have  a  fair  chance 
with  me!" 

"But  really,  Maria,  I'm  afraid  that  unless  Mary  can 
take  care  of  her  daughter  at  Eva's  she'll  leave  her  alto 
gether  and  go  to  housekeeping,  and  Eva  never  would 
know  how  to  get  along  without  Mary." 


240  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"Oh,  nonsense!  I'll  engage  to  find  Eva  a  good, 
stout  girl — or  two  of  them,  for  that  matter,  since  she 
thinks  she  could  afford  two — that  will  do  better  than 
Mary,  who  is  getting  older  every  year  and  less  capable. 
I  make  it  a  principle  to  cut  off  girls  that  have  sick 
friends  and  all  such  entanglements  and  responsibilities, 
right  away;  it  unfits  them  for  my  service." 

"Yes,  but,  Maria,  you  must  consider  that  Eva 
isn't  like  you.  Eva  really  is  fond  of  Mary,  and  had 
rather  have  her  there  than  a  younger  and  stronger 
woman.  Mary  has  been  an  old  servant  in  the  family. 
Eva  has  grown  up  with  her.  She  loves  Eva  like  a 
child." 

*'  Oh,  pshaw !"  said  Aunt  Maria.  "  Now,  of  all  things, 
don't  be  sentimental  about  servants.  It's  a  little  too 
absurd.  We  are  to  attend  to  our  own  interests!" 

"But  you  see,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  "Eva  is 
just  what  you  call  sentimental,  and  it  wouldn't  do  the 
least  good  for  me  to  talk  to  her.  She's  a  married  woman, 
and  she  and  her  husband  have  a  right  to  manage  their 
affairs  in  their  own  way.  Now,  to  tell  the  truth,  Eva 
told  me  about  this  affair,  and  on  the  whole  " — here  Mrs. 
Van  Arsdel's  voice  trembled  weakly — "  on  the  whole,  I 
didn't  think  it  would  do  any  good,  you  know,  to  oppose 
her;  and  really,  Maria,  I  was  sorry  for  poor  Mary.  You 
don't  know,  you  never  had  a  daughter,  but  I  couldn't 
help  thinking  that  if  I  were  a  poor  woman,  and  a 
daughter  of  mine  had  gone  astray,  I  should  be  so  glad 
to  have  a  chance  given  her  to  do  better ;  and  so  I  really 
couldn't  find  it  in  my  heart  to  oppose  Eva." 

"Well,  you'll  see  what '11  come  of  it,"  said  Aunt 
Maria,  who  had  stood,  a  model  of  hard,  sharp,  uncom 
promising  common  sense,  looking  her  sister  down  during 
this  weak  apology  for  the  higher  wisdom.  For  now,  as 
in  the  days  of  old,  the  wisdom  of  the  cross  is  foolishness 


AUNT  MARIA'S  ENDEAVORS. 

to  the  wise  and  prudent  of  the  world ;  and  the  heavenly 
arithmetic,  which  counts  the  one  lost  sheep  more  than 
the  ninety  and  nine  that  went  not  astray,  is  still  the 
arithmetic,  not  of  earth,  but  of  heaven.  There  are  many 
who  believe  in  the  Trinity,  and  the  Incarnation,  and  all 
the  articles  of  the  Athanasian  and  Nicene  Creeds,  to 
whom  this  wisdom  of  the  Master  is  counted  as  folly: 
"  For  the  natural  man  understandeth  not  the  things  of 
the  kingdom  of  God ;  they  are  foolishness  unto  him : 
neither  can  he  know  them." 

Now  Aunt  Maria  was  in  an  eminent  degree  a  speci 
men  of  the  feminine  sort  of  "  natural  man." 

That  a  young  and  happy  wife,  with  a  peaceful,  pros 
perous  home,  should  put  a  particle  of  her  own  happiness 
to  risk,  or  herself  to  inconvenience,  for  the  sake  of  a  poor 
servant  woman  and  a  sinful  child,  was,  in  her  view,  folly 
amounting  almost  to  fatuity ;  and  she  inly  congratulated 
herself  with  the  thought  that  her  sister  and  Eva  would 
yet  see  themselves  in  trouble  by  their  fine  fancies  and 
sentimental  benevolence. 

"Well,  sister,"  she  said,  rising  and  drawing  her  cash 
mere  shawl  in  graceful  folds  round  her  handsome  shoul 
ders,  "  I  thought  I  should  come  to  you  first,  as  you 
really  are  the  most  proper  person  to  talk  to  Eva;  but  if 
you  should  neglect  your  duty,  there  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  neglect  mine. 

"  I  hear  of  a  very  nice,  capable  girl  that  has  lived 
five  years  with  the  Willises,  who  has  had  permission  to 
advertise  from  the  house,  and  I  am  going  to  have  an  in 
terview  with  her,  and  engage  her  provisionally,  so  that,  if 
Eva  has  a  mind  to  listen  to  reason,  there  may  be  a  way 
for  her  to  supply  Mary's  place  at  once.  I've  made  up 
my  mind  that,  on  the  whole,  it's  best  Mary  should  go," 
she  added  reflectively,  as  if  she  were  the  mistress  of  Eva's 
house  and  person. 
L 


242  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  have  you  take  so  much  trouble,  Maria; 
I'm  sure  it  won't  do  any  good." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  me  to  shrink  from  any  trouble 
or  care  or  responsibility  by  which  I  could  serve  you  and 
your  children,  Nellie?  I  may  not  be  appreciated — I 
don't  expect  it — but  I  shall  not  swerve  from  my  duty  to 
you  ;  at  any  rate,  it's  my  duty  to  leave  no  stone  unturned, 
and  so  I  shall  start  out  at  once  for  the  Willises.  They 
are  going  to  Europe  for  a  year  or  two,  and  want  to  find 
good  places  for  their  servants." 

And  so  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  being  a  little  frightened  at 
the  suggestions  of  Aunt  Maria,  began  to  think  with  her 
self  that  perhaps  she  had  been  too  yielding,  and  made 
herself  very  uncomfortable  in  reflecting  on  positive  evils 
that  might  come  on  Eva. 

She  watched  her  sister's  stately,  positive,  determined 
figure  as  she  went  down  the  stairs  with  the  decision  of  a 
general,  gave  a  weak  sigh,  wished  that  she  had  not  come, 
and,  on  the  whole,  concluded  to  resume  her  story  where 
she  had  left  off  at  Aunt  Maria's  entrance. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

SHE   STOOD    OUTSIDE    THE   GATE. 

THE  trial  of  human  life  would  be  a  much  simpler  and 
easier  thing  to  meet,  if  the  lines  of  right  and  wrong 
were  always  perfectly  definite.  We  are  happy  so  far  to 
believe  in  our  kind  as  to  think  that  there  are  vast  multi 
tudes  who,  if  they  only  knew  exactly  what  was  right  and 
proper  to  be  done,  would  do  it  at  all  hazards. 

But  what  is  right  for  me,  in  these  particular  circum 
stances  ? — in  that  question,  as  it  constantly  rises,  lies  the 
great  stress  of  the  trial  of  life. 

We  have,  for  our  guidance,  a  Book  of  most  high  and 
unworldly  maxims  and  directions,  and  the  life  of  a 
Leader  so  exalted  above  all  the  ordinary  conceptions  and 
maxims  of  this  world  that  a  genuine  effort  to  be  a  Chris 
tian,  after  the  pattern  and  directions  of  Christ,  at  once 
brings  us  face  to  face  with  daily  practical  inquiries  of  the 
most  perplexing  nature. 

Our  friend,  Mrs.  Maria  Wouvermans,  was  the  very 
type  and  impersonation  of  this  world's  wisdom  of  the 
ordinary  level.  The  great  object  of  life  being  to  insure 
ease,  comfort,  and  freedom  from  annoyance  to  one's  self 
and  one's  family,  her  views  of  duty  were  all  conveniently 
arranged  along  this  line.  In  her  view,  it  was  the  first 
duty  of  every  good  housekeeper  to  look  ahead  and  avoid 
every  occasion  whence  might  arise  a  possible  inconveni 
ence  or  embarrassment.  It  was  nobody's  duty,  in  her 
opinion,  to  have  any  trouble,  if  it  could  be  avoided,  or 
to  risk  having  any.  There  were,  of  course,  duties  to  the 
poor,  which  she  settled  for  by  a  regular  annual  subscrip 
tion  to  some  well-recommended  board  of  charity  in  her 


244  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

most  respectable  church.  That  done,  she  regarded  her 
self  as  clear  for  action,  and  bound  to  shake  off  in  detail 
any  troublesome  or  embarrassing  person  that  threatened 
to  be  a  burden  to  her,  or  to  those  of  her  family  that  she 
felt  responsible  for. 

On  the  other  hand,  Eva  was  possessed  by  an  earnest 
desire  to  make  her  religious  profession  mean  something 
adequate  to  those  startling  and  constantly  recurring 
phrases  in  the  Bible  and  the  church  service  which  spoke 
of  the  Christian  as  a  being  of  a  higher  order,  led  by  an 
other  Spirit,  and  living  a  higher  life  than  that  of  the 
world  in  general.  Nothing  is  more  trying  to  an  ingenu 
ous  mind  than  the  conviction  of  anything  like  a  sham 
and  a  pretense  in  its  daily  life. 

Mr.  St.  John  had  lately  been  preaching  a  series  of 
sermons  on  the  history  and  customs  of  the  primitive 
church,  in  hearing  which  the  conviction  often  forced 
itself  on  her  mind  that  it  was  the  unworldly  life  of  the 
first  Christians  which  gave  victorious  power  to  the  faith. 
She  was  intimately  associated  with  people  who  seemed 
to  her  to  live  practically  on  the  same  plan.  Here  was 
Sibyl  Selwyn,  whose  whole  life  was  an  exalted  mission 
of  religious  devotion;  there  was  her  neighbor  Ruth  Bax 
ter,  associated  as  a  lay  sister  with  the  work  of  her  more 
gifted  friend.  Here  were  the  Sisters  of  St.  Barnabas, 
lovely,  cultivated  women  who  had  renounced  all  selfish 
ends  and  occupations  in  life,  to  give  themselves  to  the 
work  of  comforting  the  sorrowful  and  saving  the  lost. 
Such  people,  she  thought,  fully  answered  to  the  terms  in 
which  Christians  were  spoken  of  in  the  Bible.  But 
could  she,  if  she  lived  only  to  brighten  one  little  spot  of 
her  own,  if  she  shut  out  of  its  charmed  circle  all  sight 
or  feeling  of  the  suffering  and  sorrow  of  the  world  around 
her,  and  made  her  own  home  a  little  paradise  of  ease  and 
forgetfulness,  could  she  be  living  a  Christian  life  ? 


SHE  STOOI>  OUTSIDE    THE  GATE,  £45 

When,  therefore,  she  heard  from  the  poor  mother 
under  her  roof  the  tale  of  her  secretly-kept  shames, 
sorrows,  and  struggles  for  the  daughter  whose  fate  had 
filled  her  with  misery,  she  accepted  with  a  large-hearted 
inconsiderateness  a  mission  of  love  towards  the  wan 
derer. 

She  carried  it  to  her  husband ;  and,  like  two  kind- 
hearted,  generous-minded  young  people,  they  resolved  at 
once  to  make  their  home  sacred  by  bringing  into  it  this 
work  of  charity. 

Now,  this  work  would  be  far  easier  in  most  cases,  if 
the  sinner  sought  to  be  saved  would  step  forthwith  right 
across  the  line,  and  behave  henceforth  like  a  saint. 
But  unhappily  that  is  not  to  be  expected.  Certain  it 
was,  that  Maggie,  with  her  great,  black  eyes  and  her 
wavy  black  hair,  was  no  saint.  A  petted,  indulged 
child,  with  a  strong,  ungovernable  nature,  she  had  been 
whirled  hither  and  thither  in  the  tides  of  passion,  and 
now  felt  less  repentance  for  sin  than  indignation  at  her 
own  wrongs.  It  might  have  been  held  a  hopeful  symp 
tom  that  Maggie  had,  at  least,  so  much  real  truthfulness 
in  her  as  not  to  profess  what  she  did  not  feel. 

It  was  a  fact  that  the  constant  hymns  and  prayers 
and  services  of  the  pious  Sisters  wearied  her.  They 
were  too  high  for  her.  The  calm,  refined  spirituality  of 
these  exalted  natures  was  too  far  above  her,  and  she 
joined  their  services  at  best  with  a  patient  acquiescence, 
feeling  the  while  how  sinful  she  must  be  to  be  so  bored 
by  them. 

But  for  Eva  she  had  a  sort  of  wondering,  passionate 
admiration.  When  she  fluttered  into  her  sick  room, 
with  all  her  usual  little  graceful  array  of  ribbons  and 
fanciful  ornament,  Maggie's  dull  eye  would  brighten, 
and  she  looked  after  her  with  delighted  wonder.  When 
she  spoke  to  her  tenderly,  smoothed  her  pillow,  put 


246  WE  AND   OUR   NEIGHBORS. 

cologne  on  her  laced  handkerchief  and  laid  it  on  her 
brow,  poor  Maggie  felt  awed  and  flattered  by  the  atten 
tion,  far  more,  it  is  to  be  feared,  than  if  somebody  more 
resembling  the  traditional  angel  had  done  it.  This 
lively,  sprightly  little  lady,  so  graceful,  so  pretty  in  all 
her  motions  and  in  all  her  belongings,  seemed  to  poor 
worldly  Maggie  much  more  nearly  what  she  would  like 
an  angel  to  be,  in  any  world  where  she  would  have  to 
live  with  them. 

The  Sisters,  with  their  black  robes,  their  white  caps, 
and  their  solemn  prayers,  seemed  to  her  so  awfully  good 
that  their  presence  chilled  her.  She  felt  more  subdued, 
but  more  sinful  and  more  hopeless  with  them  than  ever. 

In  short,  poor  Maggie  was  yet  a  creature  of  this 
world,  and  of  sense,  and  the  spiritual  world  to  her  was 
only  one  dark,  confused  blurr,  rather  more  appalling 
than  attractive.  A  life  like  that  of  the  Sisters,  given  to 
prayer  and  meditation  and  good  works,  was  too  high  a 
rest  for  a  soul  growing  so  near  the  ground  and  with  so 
few  tendrils  to  climb  by.  Maggie  could  conceive  of 
nothing  more  dreary.  To  her,  it  seemed  like  being  al 
ways  thinking  of  her  sins  ;  and  that  topic  was  no  more 
agreeable  a  subject  of  meditation  to  Maggie  than  it  is  to 
any  of  us.  Many  people  seem  to  feel  that  the  only  way 
of  return  for  those  who  have  wandered  from  the  paths  of 
virtue  is  the  most  immediate  and  utter  self-abasement. 
There  must  be  no  effort  at  self-justification,  no  excusing 
one's  self,  no  plea  for  abatement  of  condemnation.  But 
let  us  Christians  who  have  never  fallen,  in  the  grosser 
sense,  ask  ourselves  if,  with  regard  to  our  own  particular 
sins  and  failings,  we  hold  the  same  strict  line  of  reckon 
ing.  Do  we  come  down  upon  ourselves  for  our  ill  tem 
per,  for  our  selfishness,  for  our  pride,  and  other  respect 
able  sins,  as  we  ask  the  poor  girl  to  do  who  has  been  led 
astray  from  virtue  ? 


SHE    STOOD    OUTSIDE    THE   GATE.  %±~ 

Let  us  look  back  and  remember  how  the  Master  once 
coupled  an  immaculate  Pharisee  and  a  fallen  woman  in 
one  sentence  as  two  debtors,  both  owing  a  sum  to  a 
creditor,  and  both  having  nothing  to  pay, — both  freely 
forgiven  by  infinite  clemency.  It  is  a  summing  up  of  the 
case  that  is  too  often  forgotten. 

Eva's  natural  tact  and  delicacy  stood  her  in  stead  in 
her  dealings  with  Maggie,  and  made  her  touch  upon  the 
wounds  of  the  latter  more  endurable  than  any  other. 
Without  reproof  for  the  past,  she  expressed  hope  for  the 
future. 

"You  shall  come  and  stay  with  your  mother  at  my 
house,  Maggie,"  she  said,  cheerfully,  "and  we  will  make 
you  useful.  The  fact  is.  your  mother  needs  you ;  she  is 
not  so  strong  as  she  was,  and  you  could  save  her  a  great 
many  steps." 

Now,  Maggie  still  had  skillful  hands  and  a  good  many 
available  worldly  capacities.  The  very  love  of  finery  and 
of  fine  living  which  had  once  helped  to  entrap  her,  now 
came  in  play  for  her  salvation.  Something  definite  to 
do,  is,  in  some  crises,  a  far  better  medicine  for  a  sick  soul 
than  any  amount  of  meditation  and  prayer.  One  step 
fairly  taken  in  a  right  direction,  goes  farther  than  any 
amount  of  agonized  back-looking. 

In  a  few  days,  Maggie  made  for  herself  in  Eva's 
family  a  place  in  which  she  could  feel  herself  to  be  of 
service.  She  took  charge  of  Eva's  wardrobe,  and  was 
zealous  and  efficient  in  ripping,  altering  and  adapting 
articles  for  the  adornment  of  her  pretty  mistress;  and  Eva 
never  failed  to  praise  and  encourage  her  for  every  right 
thing  she  did,  and  never  by  word  or  look  reminded  her 
of  the  past. 

Eva  did  not  preach  to  Maggie ;  but  sometimes,  sitting 
at  her  piano  while  she  sat  sewing  in  an  adjoining  room, 
she  played  and  sung  some  of  those  little  melodies  which 


248  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Sunday-schools  have  scattered  as  a  sort  of  popular  ballad 
literature.  Words  of  piety,  allied  to  a  catching  tune,  are 
like  seeds  with  wings — they  float  out  in  the  air  and  drop 
in  odd  corners  of  the  heart,  to  spring  up  in  good  pur 
poses. 

One  of  these  little  ballads  reminded  Eva  of  the 
night  she  first  saw  Maggie  lingering  in  the  street  by 
her  house : 

"  I  stood  outside  the  gate, 

A  poor  wayfaring  child  ; 
Within  my  heart  there  beat 

A  tempest  fierce  and  wild. 
A  fear  oppressed  my  soul 

That  I  might  be  too  late  ; 
And,  oh,  I  trembled  sore 

And  prayed — outside  the  gate, 

"  '  Mercy,'  I  loudly  cried, 

1  Oh,  give  me  rest  from  sin  !' 
4 1  will,'  a  voice  replied, 

And  Mercy  let  me  in. 
She  bound  my  bleeding  wounds 

And  carried  all  my  sin  ; 
She  eased  my  burdened  soul. 

Then  Jesus  took  me  in. 

"  In  Mercy's  guise  I  knew 

The  Saviour  long  abused, 
Who  oft  had  sought  my  heart, 

And  oft  had  been  refused. 
Oh,  what  a  blest  return 

For  ignorance  and  sin  ! 
I  stood  outside  the  gate 

And  Jesus  let  me  in." 

After  a  few  days,  Eva  heard  Maggie  humming  this 
tune  over  her  work.  "There,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"the  good  angels  are  near  her!  /  don't  know  what  to 
say  to  her,  but  they  do." 

In  fact,  Eva  had  that  delicacy   and  self-distrust  in 


SHE   STOOD    OUTSIDE    THE   GATE.  249 

regard  to  any  direct  and  personal  appeal  to  Maggie  which 
is  the  natural  attendant  of  personal  refinement.  She 
was  little  versed  in  any  ordinary  religious  phraseology, 
such  as  very  well-meaning  persons  often  so  freely  deal 
in.  Her  own  religious  experiences,  fervent  and  sincere 
though  they  were,  never  came  out  in  any  accredited  set 
of  phrases ;  nor  had  she  any  store  of  cut-and-dried  pious 
talk  laid  by,  to  be  used  for  inferiors  whom  she  was  called 
to  admonish.  But  she  had  stores  of  kind  artifices  to  keep 
Maggie  usefully  employed,  to  give  her  a  sense  that  she 
was  trusted  in  the  family,  to  encourage  hope  that  there 
was  a  better  future  before  her. 

Maggie's  mother,  fond  and  loving  as  she  was,  sec 
onded  these  tactics  of  her  mistress  but  indifferently. 
Mary  had  the  stern  pride  of  chastity  which  distinguishes 
the  women  of  the  old  country,  and  which  keeps  most  of 
the  Irish  girls  who  are  thrown  unprotected  on  our 
shores  superior  to  temptation. 

Mary  keenly  felt  that  Maggie  had  disgraced  her,  and 
as  health  returned  and  she  no  longer  trembled  for  her 
life,  she  seemed  called  upon  to  keep  her  daughter's  sin 
ever  before  her.  Her  past  bad  conduct  and  the  lenity 
of  her  young  mistress,  her  treating  her  so  much  better 
than  she  had  any  reason  to  expect,  were  topics  on  which 
Mary  took  every  occasion  to  enlarge  in  private,  lead 
ing  to  passionate  altercations  between  herself  and  her 
daughter,  in  which  the  child  broke  over  all  bounds  of 
goodness  and  showed  the  very  worst  aspects  of  her 
nature.  Nothing  can  be  more  miserable,  more  pitiable, 
than  these  stormy  passages  between  wayward  children 
and  honest,  good-hearted  mothers,  who  love  them  to  the 
death,  and  yet  do  not  know  how  to  handle  them,  sensitive 
and  sore  with  moral  wounds.  Many  a  time  poor  Mary 
went  to  sleep  with  a  wet  pillow,  while  Maggie,  sullen 
and  hard-hearted,  lay  with  her  great  black  eyes  wide 


260  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

open,  obdurate  and  silent,  yet  in  her  secret  heart  long 
ing  to  make  it  right  with  her  mother.  Often,  after  such 
a  passage  she  would  revolve  the  line  of  the  hymn — 

"  I  stood  outside  the  gate." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  that  gate  was  her  mother's  heart, 
and  that  she  stood  outside  of  it;  and  yet  all  the  while 
the  poor  mother  would  have  died  for  her,  Eva  could 
not  at  first  account  for  the  sullen  and  gloomy  moods 
which  came  upon  Maggie,  when  she  would  go  about  the 
house  with  lowering  brows,  and  all  her  bright,  cheerful 
ways  and  devices  could  bring  no  smile  upon  her  face. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Maggie?"  she  would  say  to 
Mary. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  ma'am,  only  she's  bad ;  she's  got  to 
be  brought  under,  and  brought  down, — that's  what  she 
has." 

"  Mary,  I  think  you  had  better  not  talk  to  Maggie 
about  her  past  faults.  She  knows  she  has  been  wrong, 
and  the  best  way  is  to  let  her  get  quietly  into  the  right 
way.  We  mustn't  keep  throwing  up  the  past  to  her. 
When  we  do  wrong,  we  don't  like  to  have  people  keep 
putting  us  in  mind  of  it." 

"  You're  jest  an  angel,  Miss  Eva,  and  it  isn't  many 
ladies  that  would  do  as  you  do.  You're  too  good  to  her 
entirely.  She  ought  to  be  made  sensible  of  it." 

"Well,  Mary,  the  best  way  to  make  her  sensible  and 
bring  her  to  repentance  is  to  treat  her  kindly  and  never 
bring  up  the  past.  Don't  you  see  it  does  no  good,  Maryt? 
It  only  makes  her  sullen,  and  gloomy,  and  unhappy,  so 
that  I  can't  get  anything  out  of  her.  Now  please,  Mary, 
just  keep  quiet,  and  let  me  manage  Maggie." 

And  then  Mary  would  promise,  and  Eva  would 
smooth  matters  over,  and  affairs  would  go  on  for  a  day 
or  two  harmoniously.  But  there  was  another  authority 


SHE   STOOD   OUTSIDE    THE   GATE.  251 

in  Mary's  family,  as  in  almost  every  Irish  household, — a 
man  who  felt  called  to  have  a  say  and  give  a  sentence. 

Mary  had  an  elder  brother,  Mike  McArtney,  who  had 
established  himself  in  a  grocery  business  a  little  out  of 
the  city,  and  who  felt  himself  to  stand  in  position  of  head 
of  the  family  to  Mary  and  her  children. 

The  absolute  and  entire  reverence  and  deference  with 
which  Irish  women  look  up  to  the  men  of  their  kindred 
is  something  in "  direct  contrast  to  the  demeanor  of 
American  women.  The  male  sex,  if  repulsed  in  other 
directions,  certainly  are  fully  justified  and  glorified  by 
the  submissive  daughters  of  Erin.  Mike  was  the  elder 
brother,  under  whose  care  Mary  came  to  this  country. 
He  was  the  adviser  and  director  of  all  her  affairs.  He 
found  her  places ;  he  guided  her  in  every  emergency. 
Mike,  of  course,  had  felt  and  bitterly  resented  the  dis 
honor  brought  on  their  family  by  Maggie's  fall.  In  his 
view,  there  was  danger  that  the  path  of  repentance  was 
being  made  altogether  too  easy  for  her,  and  he  had  re 
solved  on  the  first  leisure  Sunday  evening  to  come  to 
the  house  and  execute  a  thorough  work  of  judgment  on 
Maggie,  setting  her  sin  in  order  before  her,  and,  in  gen 
eral,  bearing  down  on  her  in  such  a  way  as  to  bring  her 
to  the  dust  and  make  her  feel  it  the  greatest  possible 
mercy  and  favor  that  any  of  her  relations  should  speak 
to  her. 

So,  after  Eva  had  hushed  the  mother  and  tranquil- 
ized  the  girl,  and  there  had  been  two  or  three  days  of 
serenity,  came  Sunday  evening  and  Uncle  Mike. 

The  result  was,  as  might  have  been  expected,  a  loud 
and  noisy  altercation.  Maggie  was  perfectly  infuriated, 
and  talked  like  one  possessed  of  a  demon ;  using,  alas ! 
language  with  which  her  sinful  life  had  made  her  only 
too  familiar,  and  which  went  far  to  justify  the  rebukes 
which  were  heaped  upon  her. 


252  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

In  his  anger  at  such  contumacious  conduct,  Uncle 
Mike  took  full  advantage  of  the  situation,  and  told  Mag 
gie  that  she  was  a  disgrace  to  her  mother  and  her  rela 
tions — a  disgrace  to  any  honest  house — and  that  he  won 
dered  that  decent  gentle-folks  would  have  her  under 
their  roof. 

In  short,  in  one  hour,  two  of  Maggie's  best  friends — 
the  mother  that  loved  her  as  her  life  and  the  uncle  that 
had  been  as  a  father  to  her — contrived  utterly  to  sweep 
away  and  destroy  all  those  delicate  cords  and  filaments 
which  the  hands  of  good  angels  had  been  fastening  to 
her  heart,  to  draw  her  heavenward. 

When  a  young  tree  is  put  in  new  ground,  its  roots 
put  forth  fibres  delicate  as  hairs,  but  in  which  is  all  the 
vitality  of  a  new  phase  of  existence.  To  tear  up  those 
roots  and  wrench  off  those  fibres  is  too  often  the  destruc 
tive  work  of  well-intending  friends ;  it  is  done  too  often 
by  those  who  would,  if  need  be,  give  their  very  heart's 
blood  for  the  welfare  they  imperil.  Such  is  life  as  we 
find  it. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

ROUGH    HANDLING    OF    SORE    NERVES. 

THE  same  Sunday  evening  that  Mary  and  her  brother 
Mike  had  devoted  to  the  disciplinary  processes 
with  Maggie,  had  been  spent  by  Eva  and  her  husband 
at  her  father's  house. 

Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  to  say  the  truth,  had  been  some 
what  shaken  and  disturbed  by  Aunt  Maria's  sugges 
tions  ;  and  she  took  early  occasion  to  draw  Eva  aside,  and 
make  many  doubtful  inquiries  and  utter  many  admoni 
tory  cautions  with  regard  to  the  part  she  had  taken  for 
Maggie. 

"  Of  course,  dear,  it's  very  kind  in  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Van  Arsdel ;  "  but  your  aunt  thinks  it  isn't  quite  pru 
dent;  and,  come  to  think  it  over,  Eva,  I'm  afraid  it  may 
get  you  into  trouble.  Everything  is  going  on  so  well  in 
your  house,  I  don't  want  you  to  have  anything  disa 
greeable,  you  know.'' 

"Well,  after  all,  mother,  how  can  I  be  a  Christian,  or 
anything  like  a  Christian,  if  I  am  never  willing  to  take 
any  trouble  ?  If  you  heard  the  preaching  we  do  every 
Sunday,  you  would  feel  so." 

"  I  don't  doubt  that  Mr.  St.  John  is  a  good  preacher," 
said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel;  "but  then  I  never  could  go  so 
far,  you  know;  and  your  aunt  is  almost  crazy  now  be 
cause  the  girls  go  up  there  and  don't  sit  in  our  pew  in 
church.  She  was  here  yesterday,  and  talked  very 
strongly  about  your  taking  Maggie.  She  really  made 
me  quite  uncomfortable." 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  know  what  concern  it  is  of 


254  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Aunt  Maria's!"  said  Eva.  "It's  a  matter  in  which 
Harry  and  I  must  follow  our  own  judgment  and  con 
science  ;  Harry  thinks  we  are  doing  right,  and  I  suspect 
Harry  knows  what  is  best  to  do  as  well  as  Aunt  Maria." 

"  Well,  certainly,  Eva,  I  must  say  it's  an  unusual 
sort  of  thing  to  do.  I  know  your  motives  are  all  right 
and  lovely,  and  I  stood  up  for  you  with  your  aunt.  I 
didn't  give  in  to  her  a  bit;  and  yet,  all  the  while,  I 
couldn't  help  thinking  that  maybe  she  was  right  and  that 
maybe  your  good-heartedness  would  get  you  into  diffi 
culty." 

"  Well,  suppose  it  does ;  what  then  ?  Am  I  never  to 
have  any  trouble  for  the  sake  of  helping  anybody?  I 
am  not  one  of  the  very  good  women  with  missions,  like 
Sibyl  Selwyn,  and  can't  do  good  that  way;  and  I'm  not 
enterprising  and  courageous,  like  sister  Ida,  to  make 
new  professions  for  women :  but  here  is  a  case  of  a  poor 
woman  right  under  my  own  roof  who  is  perplexed  and 
suffering,  and  if  I  can  help  her  carry  her  load,  ought  I 
not  to  do  it,  even  if  it  makes  me  a  good  deal  of  trouble  ?" 

"  Well,  yes,  I  don't  know  but  you  ought,"  said  Mrs. 
Van  Arsdel,  who  was  always  convinced  by  the  last 
speaker. 

"  You  see,"  continued  Eva,  "  the  priest  and  the  Levite 
who  passed  by  on  the  other  side  when  a  man  lay  wounded 
were  just  of  Aunt  Maria's  mind.  They  didn't  want 
trouble,  and  if  they  undertook  to  do  anything  for  him 
they  would  have  a  good  deal;  so  they  left  him.  And  if  I 
turn  my  back  on  Mary  and  Maggie  I  shall  be  doing 
pretty  much  the  same  thing." 

"  Well,  if  you  only  are  sure  of  succeeding.  But  girls 
that  have  fallen  into  bad  ways  are  such  dangerous 
creatures ;  perhaps  you  can't  do  her  any  good,  and  will 
only  get  yourself  into  trouble." 

"  Well,  if  I  fail,  why  then  I  shall  fail.     But  I  think 


ROUGH  HANDLING   OF  SORE  NERVES.        255 

it's  better  to  try  and  fail  in  doing  our  part  for  others  than 
never  to  try  at  all." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  are  right,  Eva ;  and  after  all 
I'm  sorry  for  poor  Mary.  She  had  a  hard  time  with  her 
marriage  all  round ;  and  I  suppose  it's  no  wonder  Maggie 
went  astray.  Mary  couldn't  control  her ;  and  handsome 
girls  in  that  walk  of  life  are  so  tempted.  How  does  she 
get  on?" 

"  Oh,  nicely,  for  the  most  part.  She  seems  to  have  a 
sort  of  adoration  for  me.  I  can  say  or  do  anything  with 
her,  and  she  really  is  very  handy  and  skillful  with  her 
needle ;  she  has  ripped  up  and  made  over  an  old  dress 
for  me  so  you'd  be  quite  astonished  to  see  it,  and  seems 
really  pleased  and  interested  to  have  something  to  do. 
If  only  her  mother  will  let  her  alone,  and  not  keep  nag 
ging  her,  and  bringing  up  old  offenses.  Mary  is  so  eager 
to  make  her  do  right  that  she  isn't  judicious,  she  doesn't 
realize  how  sensitive  and  sore  people  are  that  know  they 
have  been  wrong.  Maggie  is  a  proud  girl." 

"Oh,  well,  she's  no  business  to  be  proud,"  said  Mrs. 
Van  Arsdel.  "I'm  sure  she  ought  to  be  humbled  in  the 
very  dust;  that's  the  least  one  should  expect." 

"And  so  ought  we  all,"  said  Eva,  "but  we  are  not, 
and  she  isn't.  She  makes  excuses  for  herself,  and  feels 
as  if  she  had  been  abused  and  hardly  treated,  just  as 
most  of  us  do  when  we  go  wrong,  and  I  tell  Mary  not  to 
talk  to  her  about  the  past,  but  just  quietly  let  her  do  bet 
ter  in  future ;  but  it's  very  hard  to  get  her  to  feel  that 
Maggie  ought  not  to  be  willing  to  be  lectured  and 
preached  to  from  morning  till  night." 

"  Your  Aunt  Maria,  no  doubt,  will  come  up  and  free 
her  mind  to  you  about  this  affair,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel. 
"  She  has  a  scheme  in  her  head  of  getting  another  girl 
for  you  in  Mary's  place.  The  Willises  are  going  abroad 
for  three  years  and  have  given  their  servants  leave  to 


256  WE  AND   OUR   NEIGHBORS. 

advertise  from  the  house ;  and  your  aunt  left  me  Satur 
day,  saying  she  was  going  up  there  to  ascertain  all  about 
them  and  get  you  the  refusal  of  one  of  them,  provided 
you  wished  to  get  rid  of  Mary." 

"  Get  rid  of  Mary !  I  think  I  see  myself  turning 
upon  my  good  Mary  that  loves  me  as  she  does  her  life, 
and  scheming  to  get  her  out  of  my  house  because  she's 
in  trouble.  No,  indeed ;  Mary  has  been  true  and  faith 
ful  to  me,  and  I  will  be  a  true  and  faithful  friend  to  her. 
What  could  I  do  with  one  of  the  Willises'  servants,  with 
their  airs  and  their  graces  ?  Would  they  come  to  a  little 
house  like  mine,  and  take  all  departments  in  turn,  and  do 
for  me  as  if  they  were  doing  for  themselves,  as  Mary 
does?" 

"Just  so,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel.  "  That's  just  what 
I  told  Maria.  I  told  her  that  you  never  would  consent. 
But  you  know  how  it  is  with  her  when  she  gets  an  idea 
in  her  head,  there's  no  turning  her.  You  might  as  well 
talk  to  a  steam  engine.  She  walked  off  down  stairs 
straight  as  a  ramrod,  and  took  the  omnibus  for  the 
Willises,  in  spite  of  all  I  could  say  ;  and,  sure  as  the 
world,  she'll  be  up  to  talk  with  you  about  it.  She  insisted 
that  it  was  my  duty  to  interfere;  and  I  told  her  you 
had  a  right  to  manage  your  matters  in  your  own  way. 
Then  she  said  if  I  didn't  do  my  duty  by  you,  she 
should." 

"Well,  you  have  done  your  duty,  Mamma  dear,"  said 
Eva,  kissing  her  mother.  "  I'll  bear  witness  to  that,  and 
it  isn't  your  fault  if  I  am  not  warned.  But  you,  dear 
little  mother,  have  sense  to  let  your  children  sail  their 
own  boat  their  own  way,  without  interfering." 

"  Well,  I  think  your  ways  generally  turn  out  the  best 
ways,  Eva,"  said  her  mother.  "  And  I  think  Aunt  Maria 
herself  comes  into  them  finally.  She  is  proud  as  a  pea 
cock  of  your  receptions,  and  takes  every  occasion  to  tell 


ROUGH  HANDLING   OF  SORE  NERVES,        257 

people  what  charming,  delightful  evenings  you  have ; 
and  she  praises  your  house  and  your  housekeeping  and 
you  to  everybody,  so  you  may  put  up  with  a  little  bother 
now  and  then." 

"Oh,  I'll  manage  Aunt  Maria,  never  you  fear,"  said 
Eva,  as  she  rose  confidently  and  took  her  husband  from 
a  discussion  with  Mr.  Van  Arsdel. 

"  Come,  Harry,  it's  nine  o'clock,  and  we  have  a  long 
walk  yet  to  get  home." 

It  was  brisk,  clear  winter  moonlight  in  the  streets  as 
Harry  and  Eva  took  their  way  homeward — she  the  while 
relieving  her  mind  by  reciting  her  mother's  conversa 
tion. 

u  Don't  it  seem  strange,"  she  said,  "  how  the  minute 
one  actually  tries  to  do  some  real  Christian  work  every 
thing  goes  against  one?" 

"Yes,"  said  Harry;  "the  world  isn't  made  for  the 
unfortunate  or  unsuccessful.  In  general,  the  instinct  of 
society  is  the  same  among  men  as  among  animals — 
anything  sickly  or  maimed  is  to  be  fought  off  and  got  rid 
of.  If  there  is  a  sick  bird,  all  the  rest  fly  at  it  and  peck 
it  to  death.  So  in  the  world,  when  man  or  woman 
doesn't  keep  step  with  respectable  people,  the  first  idea 
is  to  get  them  out  of  the  way.  We  can't  exactly  kill 
them,  but  we  can  wash  our  hands  of  them.  Saving  souls 
is  no  part  of  the  world's  work — it  interferes  with  its 
steady  business ;  it  takes  unworldly  people  to  do  that." 

"And  when  one  begins,"  said  Eva,  "shrewd,  sensible 
folks,  like  Aunt  Maria,  blame  us;  and  little,  tender 
hearted  folks,  like  mamma,  think  it's  almost  a  pity  we 
should  try,  and  that  we  had  better  leave  it  to  somebody 
else ;  and  then  the  very  people  we  are  trying  to  do  for 
are  really  troublesome  and  hard  to  manage — like  poor 
Maggie.  She  is  truly  a  very  hard  person  to  get  along 
with,  and  her  mother  is  injudicious,  and  makes  it  harder ; 


258  W£  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

but  yet,  it  really  does  seem  to  be  our  work  to  help  take 
care  of  her.  Now,  isn't  it?" 

l'  Well,  then,  darling,  you  may  comfort  your  heart  with 
one  thought :  when  you  are  doing  for  pure  Christian  mo 
tives  a  thing  that  makes  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and 
gets  you  no  applause,  you  are  trying  to  live  just  that  un 
worldly  life  that  the  first  Christians  did.  They  were 
called  a  peculiar  people,  and  whoever  acts  in  the  same 
spirit  now-a-days  will  be  called  the  same.  I  think  it  is 
the  very  highest  wisdom  to  do  as  you  are  doing ;  but  it 
isn't  the  wisdom  of  this  world.  It's  the  kind  of  thing 
that  Mr.  St.  John  is  sacrificing  his  whole  life  to ;  it  is 
what  Sibyl  Selwyn  is  doing  all  the  time,  and  your  little 
neighbor  Ruth  is  helping  in.  We  can  at  least  try  to  do 
a  little.  We  are  inexperienced,  it  may  be  that  we  shall 
not  succeed,  it  may  be  that  the  girl  is  past  saving;  but 
it's  worth  while  to  try,  and  try  our  very  best." 

Harry  was  saying  this  just  as  he  put  his  latch-key 
into  the  door  of  his  house. 

It  was  suddenly  opened  from  within,  and  Maggie 
stood  before  them  with  her  bonnet  and  shawl  on,  ready 
to  pass  out.  There  was  a  hard,  sharp,  desperate  expres 
sion  in  her  face  as  she  pressed  forward  to  pass  them. 

"  Maggie,  child,"  said  Eva,  laying  hold  of  her  arm, 
"where  are  you  going?" 

"Away — anywhere — I  don't  care  where,"  said  Mag 
gie,  fiercely,  trying  to  pull  away. 

"But  you  mustn't,"  said  Eva,  laying  hold  of  her. 

"  Maggie,"  said  Harry,  stepping  up  to  her  and  speak 
ing  in  that  calm,  steady  voice  which  controls  passionate 
people,  "  go  into  the  house  immediately  with  Mrs.  Hen 
derson;  she  will  talk  with  you." 

Maggie  turned,  and  sullenly  followed  Eva  into  a  little 
sewing  room  adjoining  the  parlor,  where  she  had  often 
sat  at  work. 


ROUGH  HANDLING   OF  SORE  NERVES.        259 

"Now,  Maggie,"  said  Eva,  "take  off  your  bonnet,  for 
I'm  not  going  to  have  you  go  into  the  streets  at  this 
hour  of  the  night,  and  sit  down  quietly  here  and  tell  me 
all  about  it.  What  has  happened?  What  is  the  matter? 
You  don't  want  to  distress  your  mother  and  break  her 
heart?" 

"She  hates  me,"  said  Maggie.  "She  says  I've  dis 
graced  her  and  I  disgrace  you,  and  that  it's  a  disgrace 
to  have  me  here.  She  and  Uncle  Mike  both  said  so, 
and  I  said  I'd  go  off,  then." 

"But  where  could  you  go?"  said  Eva. 

"  Oh,  I  know  places  enough !  They're  bad,  to  be 
sure.  I  wanted  to  do  better,  so  I  came  away ;  but  I  can 
go  back  again." 

"  No,  Maggie,  you  must  never  go  back.  You  must 
do  as  I  tell  you.  Have  I  not  been  a  friend  to  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  you  have;  but  they  say  I  disgrace 
you." 

"  Maggie,  I  don't  think  so.  /  never  said  so.  There 
is  no  need  that  you  should  disgrace  anybody.  I  hope 
you'll  live  to  be  a  credit  to  your  mother — a  credit  to  us 
all.  You  are  young  yet ;  you  have  a  good  many  years 
to  live;  and  if  you'll  only  go  on  and  do  the  very  best  you 
can  from  this  time,  you  can  be  a  comfort  to  your  mother 
and  be  a  good  woman.  It's  never  too  late  to  begin, 
Maggie,  and  I'll  help  you  now." 

Maggie  sat  still  and  gazed  gloomily  before  her. 

"  Come,  now,  I'll  sing  you  some  little  hymns,"  said 
Eva,  going  to  her  piano  and  touching  a  few  chords. 
"You've  got  your  mind  all  disturbed,  and  I'll  sing  to 
you  till  you  are  more  quiet." 

Eva  had  a  sweet  voice,  and  a  light,  dreamy  sort  of 
touch  on  the  piano,  and  she  played  and  sung  with 
feeling. 

There  were  truths  in  religion,  higher,  holier,  deeper 


260  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

than  she  felt  capable  of  uttering,  which  breathed  them 
selves  in  these  hymns ;  and  something  within  her  gave 
voice  and  pathos  to  them. 

The  influence  of  music  over  the  disturbed  nerves  and 
bewildered  moral  sense  of  those  who  have  gone  astray 
from  virtue,  is  something  very  remarkable.  All  modern 
missions  more  or  less  recognize  that  it  has  a  power  which 
goes  beyond  anything  that  spoken  words  can  utter,  and 
touches  springs  of  deeper  feeling. 

Eva  sat  playing  a  long  time,  going  from  one  thing  to 
another ;  and  then,  rising,  she  found  Maggie  crying  softly 
by  herself. 

"Come,  now,  Maggie,"  she  said,  "you  are  going  to  be 
a  good  girl,  I  know.  Go  up  and  go  to  bed  now,  and 
don't  forget  your  prayers.  That's  a  good  girl." 

Maggie  yielded  passively,  and  went  to  her  room. 

Then  Eva  had  another  hour's  talk,  to  persuade  Mary 
that  she  must  not  be  too  exacting  with  Maggie,  and  that 
she  must  for  the  future  avoid  all  such  encounters  with 
her.  Mary  was,  on  the  whole,  glad  to  promise  anything ; 
for  she  had  been  thoroughly  alarmed  at  the  altercation 
into  which  their  attempt  at  admonition  had  grown,  and 
was  ready  to  admit  to  Eva  that  Mike  had  been  too  hard 
on  her.  At  all  events,  the  family  honor  had  been  suffi 
ciently  vindicated,  and,  if  Maggie  would  only  behave  her 
self,  she  was  ready  to  promise  that  Mike  should  not  be 
allowed  to  interfere  in  future.  And  so,  at  last,  Eva 
succeeded  in  inducing  Mary  to  go  to  her  daughter's 
room  with  a  reconciling  word  before  she  went  to  bed, 
and  had  the  comfort  of  seeing  the  naughty  girl  crying  in 
her  mother's  arms,  and  the  mother  petting  and  fondling 
her  as  a  mother  should. 

Alas !  it  is  only  in  the  good  old  Book  that  the  father 
sees  the  prodigal  a  great  way  off,  and  runs  and  falls  on 
his  neck  and  kisses  him,  before  he  has  confessed  his  sin 


ROUGH  HANDLING   OF  SORE   NERVES.        ^61 

or  done  any  work  of  repentance.  So  far  does  God's 
heavenly  love  outrun  even  the  love  of  fathers  and 
mothers. 

"  Well,  I  believe  I've  got  things  straightened  out  at 
last,"  said  Eva,  as  she  came  back  to  Harry;  "and  now, 
if  Mary  will  only  let  me  manage  Maggie,  I  think  I  can 
make  all  go  smooth." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

REASON     AND     UNREASON. 

THE  next  morning  being  Monday,  Dr.  Campbell 
dropped  in  to  breakfast.  Since  he  and  Eva  had 
met  so  often  in  Maggie's  sick  room,  and  he  had  discussed 
the  direction  of  her  physical  well-being,  he  had  rapidly 
grown  in  intimacy  with  the  Hendersons,  and  the  little 
house  had  come  to  be  regarded  by  him  as  a  sort  of  home. 
Consequently,  when  Eva  sailed  into  her  dining-room, 
she  found  him  quietly  arranging  a  handful  of  cut  flow 
ers  which  he  had  brought  in  for  the  center  of  her 
breakfast  table. 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Henderson,"  he  said,  compos 
edly.  "  I  stepped  into  Allen's  green-house  on  my  way 
up,  to  bring  in  a  few  flowers.  With  the  mercury  at  zero, 
flowers  are  worth  something." 

"  How  perfectly  lovely  of  you,  Doctor,"  said  she. 
"  You  are  too  good." 

"  I  don't  say,  however,  that  I  had  not  my  eye  on  a 
cup  of  your  coffee,"  he  replied.  "You  know  I  have  no 
faith  in  disinterested  benevolence." 

"  Well,  sit  down  then,  old  fellow,"  said  Harry,  clap 
ping  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  You're  welcome,  flowers  or 
no  flowers." 

"  How  are  you  all  getting  on  ?"  he  said,  seating  him 
self. 

"  Charmingly,  of  course,"  said  Eva,  from  behind  the 
coffee-pot,  "and  as  the  song  says,  *the  better  for  seeing 
you.'" 

"And  how's  my  patient — Maggie?" 


REASON  AND    UNREASON.  263 

"  Oh,  she's  doing  well,  if  only  people  will  let  her 
alone ;  but  her  mother,  and  uncle,  and  relations  will  keep 
irritating  her  with  reproaches.  You  see,  I  had  got  her  in 
beautiful  training,  and  she  was  sewing  for  me  and  mak 
ing  herself  very  useful,  when,  Sunday  evening,  when  I 
was  gone  out,  her  uncle  came  to  see  her,  and  talked  and 
bore  down  upon  her  so  as  to  completely  upset  all  I  had 
done.  I  came  home  and  found  her  just  going  out  of  the 
house,  perfectly  desperate.*' 

"And  ready  to  go  to  the  devil  straight  off,  I  sup 
pose?"  said  the  Doctor.  "His  doors  are  always  open." 

"You  see,"  said  Harry,  "things  seem  to  be  so  ar 
ranged  in  this  world  that  if  man,  woman  or  child  does 
wrong  or  gets  out  of  the  way,  all  society  is  armed  to  the 
teeth  to  prevent  their  ever  doing  right  again.  Their  own 
flesh  and  blood  pitch  into  them  with  reproaches  and  ex 
postulations,  and  everybody  else  looks  on  them  with 
suspicion,  and  nobody  wants  them  and  nobody  dares 
trust  them." 

"Just  so,"  said  Dr.  Campbell,  "the  world  is  an  army 
— it  can't  stop  for  anything.  *  Wounded  to  the  rear,'  is 
the  word,  and  the  army  must  go  on  and  leave  the  sick 
and  wounded  to  die  or  be  taken  by  the  enemy.  For  my 
part,  I  never  thought  Napoleon  was  so  much  out  of  the 
way  when  he  recommended  poisoning  the  sick  and 
wounded  that  could  not  be  moved.  I  think  I  should 
prefer  to  be  comfortably  and  decently  poisoned  myself 
in  such  a  case.  The  world  isn't  ripe  yet  for  the  doc 
trine  ;  but  I  think  all  people  who  get  broken  down,  and 
don't  keep  step  physically  and  morally,  had  better  be 
killed  at  once.  Then  we  could  get  on  comfortably,  and 
in  a  few  generations  should  have  a  nice  population." 

"Come,  now,  Doctor;  I'm  not  going  to  have  that  sort 
ol  talk,"  said  Eva.  "In  short,  you've  got  to  keep  on  as 
you  have  been  doing — working  for  the  wounded  in  the 


264  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

rear.  And  now  tell  me  if  I  could  do  a  better  thing  for 
Maggie  than  keep  her  here  in  our  house,  under  my  own 
eye  and  influence,  till  she  gets  quite  strong  and  well, 
and  help  her  to  live  down  the  past?" 

"  Well,  that's  a  sensible  putting  of  the  thing,"  said 
Dr.  Campbsll,  "  if  you  will  be  foolish  enough  to  take  the 
trouble;  but  I  forewarn  you  that  girls  that  have  been 
through  her  experiences  are  troublesome  to  manage. 
Their  nerves  are  all  in  a  jangle;  they  are  sore  every 
where,  and  the  very  good  that  is  in  them  is  turned 
wrong  side  outward;  and,  as  you  say,  the  world  will  be 
against  you,  in  a  general  way.  Relations,  as  far  as  ever  I 
have  observed,  are  rather  harder  on  sinners  than  anybody 
else — especially  on  a  woman  that  goes  astray;  and  next  to 
them  sensible,  worldly-wise,  respectable  people — people 
who  live  to  get  rid  of  trouble,  and  feel  that  '  bother ' 
is  the  sum  and  substance  of  evil.  Now,  taking  up  a  girl 
like  Maggie,  you  must  count  on  that.  Her  relations 
will  hinder  all  they  can ;  and  the  more  respectable  they 
are,  the  harder  they  will  bear  down  upon  her.  Your 
relations  will  think  you  a  sentimental  little  fool,  and  do 
all  they  can  to  hinder  you.  The  rank  and  file  of  com 
fortable,  religious,  church-going  people  will  call  you  im 
prudent,  and  cnly  fanatics,  like  Mr.  St.  John  and  Sibyl 
Selwyn,  will  understand  you  or  stand  by  you ;  and,,  to 
crown  all,  the  girl  herself  is  as  unreliable  as  the  wind. 
The  evil  done  to  a  woman  in  this  kind  of  life  is  the  de 
rangement  of  her  whole  nervous  system,  so  that  she  is 
swept  by  floods  of  morbid  influences,  and  liable  to  wild, 
passionate  gusts  of  feeling.  The  cessation  from  this  free 
Bohemian  life,  with  its  strong  excitements,  leaves  them 
in  unnatural  states  of  craving  for  stimulus ;  and  when  you 
have  done  all  you  can  for  them, — in  a  moment,  off  they 
go.  That's  the  reason  why  most  prudent  people  prefer 
to  wash  their  hands  of  them,  and  stop  before  they  begin." 


REASON  AND    UNREASON.  265 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  talk  so,  Doctor,  if  the  case  re 
lated  to  a  stranger;  but  here  is  my  poor,  good  Mary, 
who  has  been  in  our  family  ever  since  I  was  a  little 
girl,  and  has  always  loved  me  and  been  devoted  to  me — 
shall  I  now  give  her  the  cold  shoulder  and  not  help 
her  in  this  crisis  of  her  life,  because  I  am  afraid  of 
trouble?  Isn't  it  worth  trouble,  and  a  great  deal  of 
trouble,  and  a  great  deal  of  patience,  to  save  this 
daughter  of  hers  from  ruin  ?  I  think  it  is." 

"  I  think  you  and  your  husband  will  do  it,"  said  the 
Doctor,  "because  you  are  just  what  you  are;  and  I 
shall  help  you,  because  I'm  what  I  am ;  but,  neverthe 
less,  I  set  the  reasonable  side  before  you.  I  think  this 
Maggie  is  a  fine  creature.  There  are,  in  a  confused 
way,  the  beginnings  of  a  great  deal  that  is  right,  and 
even  noble,  in  her;  but  nobody  ought  to  begin  with  her 
without  taking  account  of  risks." 

"Well,"  said  Eva,  "you  know  I  am  a  Christian,  and 
I  look  in  the  New  Testament  for  my  principles,  and 
there  I  find  it  plainly  set  down  that  the  Lord  values  one 
sinner  that  is  brought  to  repentance  more  than  ninety 
and  nine  just  persons  that  need  no  repentance ;  and  that 
he  would  leave  the  ninety  and  nine  sheep,  and  go  into 
the  wilderness  to  look  up  one  lost  lamb." 

"  That  is  the  Christian  religion,  undoubtedly,"  said 
Dr.  Campbell ;  "  but  there  is  exactly  where  the  Christian 
religion  parts  company  with  worldly  prudence.  The 
world  and  all  its  institutions  are  organized  and  arranged 
for  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  prudent,  and  the  successful. 
The  weak,  the  sick,  the  sinners,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
are  to  have  as  much  care  as  they  can  without  interfering 
with  the  healthy  and  strong.  Now,  in  the  good  old 
times  of  English  law,  they  used  to  hang  summarily  any 
body  that  made  trouble  in  society  in  any  way — the 
woman  who  stole  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  the  man  who  stole 
M 


WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

a  horse,  and  the  vagrant  who  picked  a  pocket;  then 
there  was  no  discussion  and  no  bother  about  reforma 
tion,  such  as  is  coming  down  upon  our  consciences  now- 
a-days.  Good  old  times  those  were,  when  there  wasn't 
any  of  this  gush  over  the  fallen  and  lost ;  the  slate  was 
wiped  clean  of  all  the  puzzling  sums  at  the  yearly  assizes 
and  the  account  started  clear.  Now-a-days,  there  is 
such  a  bother  about  taking  care  of  criminals  that  an 
honest  man  has  no  decent  chance  of  comfort." 

"Well,  Doctor,"  said  Eva,  "if  the  essence  of  Chris 
tianity  is  restoration  and  salvation,  I  don't  see  but  your 
profession  is  essentially  a  Christian  one.  You  seek  and 
save  the  lost.  It  is  your  business  by  your  toil  and  labor 
to  help  people  who  have  sinned  against  the  laws  of  na 
ture,  to  get  them  back  again  to  health;  isn't  it  so?" 

"Well,  yes,  it  is,"  said  the  doctor,  "though  I  find 
everything  going  against  me  in  this  direction,  as  much  as 
you  do." 

"But  you  find  mercy  in  nature,"  said  Harry.  "In 
the  language  of  the  Psalms :  '  There  is  forgiveness  with 
her  that  she  may  be  feared.'  The  first  thing,  after  one 
of  her  laws  has  been  broken,  comes  in  her  effort  to 
restore  and  save ;  it  may  be  blind  and  awkward,  but  still 
it  points  toward  life  and  not  death,  and  you  doctors  are 
her  ministers  and  priests.  You  bear  the  physical  gospel; 
and  we  Christians  take  the  same  process  to  the  spiritual 
realm  that  lies  just  above  yours,  and  that  has  to  work 
through  yours.  Our  business  in  both  realms  seems  to  be, 
by  our  own  labor,  self-denial  and  suffering,  to  save  those 
who  have  sinned  against  the  laws  of  their  being." 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor;  "even  so,  I  go  in  for  saving 
in  my  line  by  an  instinct  apart  from  my  reason,  an  in 
stinct  as  blind  as  nature's  when  she  sets  out  to  heal  a 
broken  bone  in  the  right  arm  of  a  scalawag,  who  never 
used  his  arm  for  anything  but  thrashing  his  wife  and 


REASON  AND    UNREASON.  267 

children,  and  making  himself  a  general  nuisance ;  yet  I 
have  been  amazed  sometimes  to  see  how  kindly  and 
patiently  old  Mother  Nature  will  work  for  such  a  man. 
Well,  I  am  something  like  her.  I  have  the  blind  instinct 
of  healing  in  my  profession,  and  I  confess  to  sitting  up 
all  night,  watching  to  keep  the  breath  of  life  in  sick 
babies  that  I  know  ought  to  be  dead,  and  had  better  be 
dead,  inasmuch  as  there's  no  chance  for  them  to  be  even 
decent  and  respectable,  if  they  live;  but  I  can't  let  'em 
die,  any  more  than  nature  can,  without  a  struggle.  The 
fact  is,  reason  is  one  thing  and  the  human  heart 
another;  and,  as  St.  Paul  says,  'these  two  are  contrary 
one  to  the  other,  so  that  ye  cannot  do  the  thing  ye 
would.'  You  and  your  husband,  Mrs.  Henderson,  have 
got  a  good  deal  of  this  troublesome  human  heart  in  you, 
so  that  you  cannot  act  reasonably,  any  more  than  I  can." 

"That's  it,  Doctor,"  said  Eva,  with  a  bright,  sud 
den  movement  towards  him  and  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  "let's  not  act  reasonably — let's  act  by  something 
higher.  I  know  there  is  something  higher — something 
we  dare  to  do  and  feel  able  to  do  in  our  best  moments. 
You  are  a  Christian  in  heart,  Doctor,  if  not  in  faith." 

"Me?  I'm  the  most  terrible  heretic  in  all  the  con 
tinent." 

"  But  when  you  sit  up  all  night  with  a  sick  baby 
from  mere  love  of  saving,  you  are  a  Christian ;  for, 
doesn't  Christ  say,  *  inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  unto  the  least 
of  these,  ye  did  it  unto  me '  ?  Christians  are  those  who 
have  Christ's  spirit,  as  I  think,  and  sacrifice  themselves 
to  save  others." 

"  May  the  angels  be  of  your  opinion  when  I  try  the 
gate  hereafter,"  said  the  Doctor.  "But  now,  seriously, 
about  this  Maggie.  I  apprehend  that  you  will  have 
trouble  from  the  fact  that,  having  been  kept  on  stimu 
lants  in  a  rambling,  loose,  disorderly  life,  she  will  not  be 


268  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

able  long  to  accommodate  herself  to  any  regular  habits. 
I  don't  know  how  much  of  a  craving  for  drink  there  may 
be  in  her  case,  but  it  is  a  usual  complication  of  such 
cases.  Such  people  may  go  for  weeks  without  yielding, 
and  then  the  furor  comes  upon  them,  and  away  they  go. 
Perhaps  she  may  not  be  one  of  those  worst  cases ;  but, 
in  any  event,  the  sudden  cessation  of  all  the  tumultuous 
excitement  she  has  been  accustomed  to,  may  lead  to  a 
running  down  of  the  nervous  system  that  will  make  her 
act  unreasonably.  Her  mother,  and  people  of  her  class, 
may  be  relied  on  for  doing  the  very  worst  thing  that  the 
case  admits  of,  with  the  very  best  intentions.  And  now 
if  these  complications  get  you  into  any  trouble,  rely 
upon  me  so  far  as  I  can  do  anything  to  help.  Don't 
hesitate  to  command  me  at  any  hour  #nd  to  any  extent, 
because  I  mean  to  see  the  thing  through  with  you. 
When  spring  comes  on,  if  you  get  her  through  the  win 
ter,  we  must  try  and  find  her  a  place  in  some  decent, 
quiet  farmer's  family  in  the  country,  where  she  may  feed 
chickens  and  ducks,  and  make  butter,  and  live  a  natural, 
healthful,  out-door  life;  and,  in  my  opinion,  that  will 
be  the  best  and  safest  way  for  her." 

"  Come,  Doctor,"  said  Harry,  "will  you  walk  up  town 
with  me?  It's  time  I  was  off." 

"  Now,  Harry,  please  remember;  don't  forget  to  match 
that  worsted,"  said  Eva.  "Oh!  and  that  tea  must  be 
changed.  You  just  call  in  and 'tell  Haskins  that." 

"  Anything  else  ?"  said  Harry,  buttoning  on  his  over 
coat. 

"  No ;  only  be  sure  you  come  back  early,  for  mamma 
says  Aunt  Maria  is  coming  down  here  upon  me,  and  I 
shall  want  you  to  strengthen  me.  The  Doctor  appre 
ciates  Aunt  Maria." 

"Certainly  I  do,"  said  the  Doctor;  "  a  devoted  rela 
tion  who  carries  you  all  in  her  heart  hourly,  and  there- 


REASON  AND    UNREASON.  269 

fore  has  an  undoubted  right  to  make  you  as  uncom 
fortable  as  she  pleases.  That's  the  beauty  of  relations. 
If  you  have  them  you  are  bothered  with  them,  and  if 
you  haven't  you  are  bothered  for  want  of  'em.  So  it 
goes.  Now  I  would  give  all  the  world  if  I  had  a  good 
aunt  or  grandmother  to  haul  me  over  the  coals,  and 
fight  me,  out  of  pure  love — a  fellow  feels  lonesome  when 
he  knows  nobody  would  care  if  he  went  to  the  devil." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  Eva,  "come  here  whenever 
you're  lonesome,  and  we'll  fight  and  abuse  you  to  your 
heart's  content ;  and  you  sha'n't  go  to  that  improper  per 
son  without  our  making  a  fuss  about  it.  We'll  abuse 
you  as  if  you  were  one  of  the  family." 

"  Good,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  stepped  towards  the 
front  window ;  "  but  here,  to  be  sure,  is  your  aunt,  bright 
and  early." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

AUNT   MARIA    FREES   HER   MIND. 

THE  door  opened,  to  let  out  the  two  gentlemen,  just 
as   Mrs.  Wouvermans    was  coming  up  the  steps, 
fresh  and  crisp  as  one  out  betimes  on  the  labors  of  a 
good  conscience. 

The  dear  woman  had  visited  the  Willises,  at  the  re 
mote  end  of  the  city,  had  had  diplomatic  conversations 
with  both  mistress  and  maid  in  that  establishment,  and 
had  now  arrived  as  minister  plenipotentiary  to  set  all 
matters  right  in  Eva's  establishment.  She  had  looked 
all  through  the  subject,  made  up  her  mind  precisely  what 
Eva  ought  to  do,  revolved  it  in  her  own  mind  as  she  sat 
apparently  attending  to  a  rather  drowsy  sermon  at  her 
church,  and  was  now  come,  as  full  of  sparkling  vigor 
and  brisk  purposes  as  a  well-corked  bottle  of  cham 
pagne. 

Eva  met  her  at  the  door  with  the  dutiful  affection 
which  she  had  schooled  herself  to  feel  towards  one  whose 
intentions  were  always  so  good,  but  with  a  secret  reserve 
of  firm  resistance  as  to  the  lines  of  her  own  proper  per 
sonality. 

"  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do,  to-day,"  said  the  lady, 
"  and  so  I  came  out  early  to  see  you  before  you  should 
be  gone  out  or  anything,  because  I  had  something  very 
particular  I  wanted  to  say  to  you." 

Eva  took  her  aunt's  things  and  committed  them  to 
the  care  of  Maggie,  who  opened  the  parlor-door  at  this 
moment. 

Aunt  Maria  turned  towards  the  girl  in  a  grand  supe 
rior  way  and  fixed  a  searching  glance  on  her. 


A  UNT  MARIA   FREES  HER  MIND. 

"  Maggie,"  she  said,  "  is  this  you  ?  I'm  astonished  to 
see /<?#  here." 

The  words  were  not  much,  but  the  intonation  and 
manner  were  meant  to  have  all  the  effect  of  an  awful  and 
severe  act  of  judgment  on  a  detected  culprit — to  ex 
press  Mrs.  Wouvermans'  opinion  that  Maggie's  presence 
in  any  decent  house  was  an  impertinence  and  a  disgrace. 

Maggie's  pale  face  turned  a  shade  paler,  and  her 
black  eyes  flashed  fire,  but  she  said  nothing;  she  went 
out  and  closed  the  door  with  violence. 

"  Did  you  see  that?"  said  Aunt  Maria,  turning  to  Eva. 

"  I  saw  it,  Aunty,  and  I  must  say  I  think  it  was  more 
your  fault  than  Maggie's.  People  in  our  position  ought 
not  to  provoke  girls,  if  we  do  not  want  to  excite  temper 
and  have  rudeness." 

"Well,  Eva,  I've  come  up  here  to  have  a  plain  talk 
with  you  about  this  girl,  for  I  think  you  don't  know  what 
you're  doing  in  taking  her  into  your  house.  I've  talked 
with  Mrs.  Willis,  and  with  your  Aunt  Atkins,  and  with 
dear  Mrs.  Elmore  about  it,  and  there  is  but  just  one 
opinion — they  are  all  united  in  the  idea  that  you  ought 
not  to  take  such  a  girl  into  your  family.  You  never  can 
do  anything  with  them ;  they  are  utterly  good  for  noth 
ing,  and  they  make  no  end  of  trouble.  I  went  and  talked 
to  your  mother,  but  she  is  just  like  a  bit  of  tow  string, 
you  can't  trust  her  any  way,  and  she  is  afraid  to  come 
and  tell  you  what  she  really  thinks,  but  in  her  heart  she 
feels  just  as  the  rest  of  us  do." 

"Well,  now,  upon  my  word,  Aunt  Maria,  I  can't  see 
what  right  you  and  Mrs.  Willis  and  Aunt  Atkins  and 
Mrs.  Elmore  have  to  sit  as  a  jury  on  my  family  affairs 
and  send  me  advice  as  to  my  arrangements,  and  I'm  not 
in  the  least  obliged  to  you  for  talking  about  my  affairs  to 
them.  I  think  I  told  you,  some  time  ago,  that  Harry 
and  I  intend  to  manage  our  family  according  to  our  own 


272  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

judgment ;  and,  while  we  respect  you,  and  are  desirous 
of  showing  that  respect  in  every  proper  way,  we  cannot 
allow  you  any  right  to  intermeddle  in  our  family  matters. 
I  am  guided  by  my  husband's  judgment  (and  you  your 
self  admit  that,  for  a  wife,  there  is  no  other  proper  appeal) 
and  Harry  and  I  act  as  one.  We  are  entirely  united  in 
all  our  family  plans." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  there  is  no  ham  in  my  taking 
an  interest  in  your  family  matters,  since  you  are  my  god 
child,  and  I  brought  you  up,  and  have  always  cared  as 
much  about  you  as  any  mother  could  do — in  fact,  I  think 
I  have  felt  more  like  a  mother  to  you  than  Nellie  has." 

"Well,  Aunty,"  said  Eva,  "  of  course,  I  feel  how  kind 
and  good  you  have  always  been,  and  I'm  sure  I  thank 
you  with  all  my  heart ;  but  still,  after  all,  we  must  be 
firm  in  saying  that  you  cannot  govern  our  family." 

"Who  is  wanting  to  govern  your  family? — what 
ridiculous  talk  that  is!  Just  as  if  I  had  ever  tried; 
but  you  may,  of  course,  allow  your  old  aunt,  that 
has  had  experience  that  you  haven't  had,  to  propose 
arrangements  and  tell  you  of  things  to  your  advantage, 
can't  you  ?" 

"Oh,  of  course,  Aunty." 

"Well,  I  went  up  to  the  Willises,  because  they  are 
going  to  Europe,  to  be  gone  for  three  years,  and  I 
thought  I  could  secure  their  Ann  for  you.  Ann  is  a 
treasure.  She  has  been  ten  years  with  the  Willises,  and 
Mrs.  Willis  says  she  don't  know  of  a  fault  that  she  has." 

"  Very  well,  but,  Aunty,  I  don't  want  Ann,  if  she  were 
an  angel ;  I  have  my  Mary,  and  I  prefer  her  to  anybody 
that  could  be  named." 

"  But,  Eva,  Mary  is  getting  old,  and  she  is  encum 
bered  with  this  witch  of  a  daughter,  whom  she  is  putting 
upon  your  shoulders  and  making  you  carry ;  and  I 
perceive  that  you'll  be  ridden  to  death — it's  a  perfect 


AUNT  MARIA   FREES  HER  MIND.  273 

Old  Man  of  the  Sea  on  your  backs.  Now,  get  rid  of 
Mary,  and  you'll  get  rid  of  the  whole  trouble.  It  isn't 
worth  while,  just  because  you've  got  attached  to  Mary, 
to  sacrifice  your  interests  for  her  sake.  Just  let  her  go." 

"Well,  now,  Aunty,  the  short  of  the  matter  is,  that  I 
will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  won't  let  Mary  go,  and  I 
don't  want  any  other  arrangement  than  just  what  I  have. 
I  am  perfectly  satisfied." 

"Well,  you'll  see  that  your  keeping  that  girl  in  your 
house  will  bring  you  all  into  disgrace  yet,"  said  Aunt 
Maria,  rising  hastily.  "But  it's  no  use  talking.  I 
spent  a  good  half-day  attending  to  this  matter,  and 
making  arrangements  that  would  have  given  you  the 
very  best  of  servants;  but  if  you  choose  to  take  in 
tramps,  you  must  take  the  consequences.  I  can't  help 
it;"  and  Aunt  Maria  rose  vengefully  and  felt  for  her 
bonnet. 

Eva  opened  the  door  of  the  little  sewing-room,  where 
Maggie  had  laid  it,  and  saw  her  vanishing  out  of  the 
opposite  door. 

"  I  hope  she  did  not  hear  you,  Aunty,"  she  said,  in 
voluntarily. 

"  I  don't  care  if  she  did,"  was  the  reply,  as  the  in 
jured  lady  resumed  her  bonnet  and  departed  from  the 
house,  figuratively  shaking  the  dust  from  her  feet. 

Eva  went  out  also  to  attend  to  some  of  her  morning 
business,  and,  on  her  return,  was  met  by  Mary  with  an 
anxious  face.  Maggie  had  gone  out  and  taken  all  her 
things  with  her,  and  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  After 
some  search,  Eva  found  a  paper  pinned  to  the  cushion 
of  her  toilet-table,  on  which  was  written : 

"Dear  Mrs.  Henderson  :  You  have  tried  hard  to  save  me  ;  but 
it's  no  use.  I  am  only  a  trouble  to  mother,  and  I  disgrace  you.  So 
I  am  going,  and  don't  try  to  find  me.  May  God  bless  you  and 
mother.  MAGGIE." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A    DINNER   ON    WASHING  DAY. 

r  I  ^HE  world  cannot  wait  for  anybody.  No  matter 
J_  whose  heart  breaks  or  whose  limbs  ache,  the  world 
must  move  on.  Life  always  has  its  next  thing  to  be 
done,  which  comes  up  imperatively,  no  matter  what  hap 
pens  to  you  or  me. 

So  when  it  appeared  that  Maggie  was  absolutely 
gone — gone  without  leaving  trace  or  clue  where  to  look 
for  her,  Mary,  though  distressed  and  broken-hearted, 
had  small  time  for  lamentations. 

For  just  as  Maggie's  note  had  been  found,  read,  and 
explained  to  Mary,  and  in  the  midst  of  grief  and  won 
derment,  a  note  was  handed  in  to  Eva  by  an  office-boy, 
running  thus : 

"  Dear  Little  Wifie  :  I  have  caught  Selby,  and  we  can  have  him 
at  dinner  to-night ;  and  as  I  know  there's  nothing  like  you  for 
emergencies,  I  secured  him,  and  took  the  liberty  of  calling  in  on 
Alice  and  Angie,  and  telling  them  to  come.  I  shall  ask  St.  John, 
and  Jim,  and  Bolton,  and  Campbell — you  know,  the  more  the  mer 
rier,  and,  when  you  are  about  it,  it's  no  more  trouble  to  have  six  or 
seven  than  one  ;  and  now  you  have  Maggie,  one  may  as  well  spread 
a  little.  Your  own  HARRY." 

"Was  ever  such  a  man!"  said  Eva;  "poor  Mary! 
I'm  sorry  all  this  is  to  come  upon  you  just  as  you  have 
so  much  trouble,  but  just  hear  now!  Mr.  Henderson 
has  invited  an  English  gentleman  to  dinner,  and  a  whole 
parcel  of  folks  with  him.  Well,  most  of  them  are  our 
folks,  Mary — Miss  Angie,  and  Miss  Alice,  and  Mr.  Fel- 


A   DINNER   ON    WASHING  DA  Y.  275 

lows,  and  Mr.  Bolton,  and  Mr.  St.  John — of  course  we 
must  have  him." 

"Oh,  well,  we  must  just  do  the  best  we  can,"  said 
Mary,  entering  into  the  situation  at  once;  "but  really, 
the  turkey  that's  been  sent  in  isn't  enough  for  so  many. 
If  you'd  be  so  good  as  to  step  down  to  Simon's,  ma'am, 
and  order  a  pair  of  chickens,  I  could  make  a  chicken 
pie,  and  then  there's  most  of  that  cold  boiled  ham  left, 
and  trimmed  up  with  parsley  it  would  do  to  set  on  table 
— you'll  -ask  him  to  send  parsley — and  the  celery's  not 
enough,  we  shall  want  two  or  three  more  bunches.  I'm 
sorry  Mr.  Henderson  couldn't  have  put  it  off,  later  in 
the  week,  till  the  washing  was  out  of  the  way,"  she  con 
cluded,  meekly,  "but  we  must  do  the  best  we  can." 

Now,  Christian  fortitude  has  many  more  showy  and 
sublime  forms,  but  none  more  real  than  that  of  a  poor 
working-woman  suddenly  called  upon  to  change  all  her 
plans  of  operations  on  washing  day,  and  more  especially 
if  the  greatest  and  most  perplexing  of  life's  troubles 
meets  her  at  the  same  moment.  Mary's  patience  and 
self-sacrifice  showed  that  the  crucifix  and  rosary  and 
prayer-book  in  her  chamber  were  something  more  than 
ornamental  appendages — they  were  the  outward  signs 
of  a  faith  that  was  real. 

"  My  dear,  good  Mary,"  said  Eva,  "  it's  just  sweet  of 
you  to  take  things  so  patiently,  when  I  know  you're 
feeling  so  bad ;  but  the  way  it  came  about  is  this :  this 
gentleman  is  from  England,  and  he  is  one  that  Harry 
wants  very  much  to  show  attention  to,  and  he  only  stays 
a  short  time,  and  so  we  have  to  take  him  when  we  can 
get  him.  You  know  Mr.  Henderson  generally  is  so 
considerate." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  said  Mary,  "folks  can't  always  have 
things  just  as  they  want." 

"And  then,  you  know,  Mary,  he  .thought  we  should 


276  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

have  Maggie  here  to  help  us.     He  couldn't  know,  you 

Mary's  countenance  fell,  and  Eva's  heart  smote  her, 
as  if  she  were  hard  and  unsympathetic  in  forcing  her 
own  business  upon  her  in  her  trouble,  and  she  hastened 
to  add : 

"  We  sha'n't  give  Maggie  up  I  will  tell  Mr.  Hender 
son  about  her  when  he  comes  home,  and  he  will  know 
just  what  to  do.  You  may  be  sure,  Mary,  he  will  stand 
by  you,  and  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  help  you.  We'll 
find  her  yet." 

"It's  my  fault  partly,  I'm  afraid;  if  I'd  only  done 
better  by  her,"  said  Mary ;  "  and  Mike,  he  was  hard  on 
her;  she  never  would  bear  curbing  in,  Maggie  wouldn't. 
But  we  must  just  do  the  best  we  can,"  she  added,  wiping 
her  eyes  with  her  apron.  "What  would  you  have  for 
dessert,  ma'am?" 

"What  would  you  make  easiest,  Mary  ?" 

"  Well  there's  jelly,  blanc-mange  or  floating  island, 
though  we  didn't  take  milk  enough  for  that ;  but  I  guess 
I  can  borrow  some  of  Dinah  over  the  way.  Miss  Dorcas 
would  be  willing,  I'm  sure." 

"  Well,  Mary,  arrange  it  just  as  you  please.  I'll  go 
down  and  order  more  celery  and  the  chickens,  and  I 
know  you'll  bring  it  all  right;  you  always  do.  Mean 
while,  I'll  go  to  a  fruit  store,  and  get  some  handsome 
fruit  to  set  off  the  table." 

And  so  Eva  went  out,  and  Mary,  left  alone  with  her 
troubles,  went  on  picking  celery,  and  preparing  to  make 
jelly  and  blanc  mange,  with  bitterness  in  her  soul.  Peo 
ple  must  eat,  no  matter  whose  hearts  break,  or  who  go 
to  destruction ;  but,  on  the  whole,  this  incessant  drive  of 
the  actual  in  life  is  not  a  bad  thing  for  sorrow. 

If  Mary  had  been  a  rich  woman,  with  nothing  to  do 
but  to  go  to  bed  with  a  smelling-bottle,  with  full  leisure 


A   DINNER  ON   WASHING  DAY.  277 

to  pet  and  coddle  her  griefs,  she  could  not  have  made 
half  as  good  headway  against  them  as  she  did  by  help 
of  her  chicken  pie,  and  jelly,  and  celery  and  what  not, 
that  day. 

Eva  had,  to  be  sure,  given  her  the  only  comfort  in 
her  power,  in  the  assurance  that  when  her  husband  came 
home  she  would  tell  him  about  it,  and  they  would  see  if 
anything  could  be  done  to  find  Maggie  and  bring  her 
back.  Poor  Mary  was  full  of  self-reproach  for  what  it 
was  too  late  to  help,  and  with  concern  for  the  trouble 
which  she  felt  her  young  mistress  had  been  subjected  to. 
Added  to  this  was  the  wounded  pride  of  respectability, 
even  more  strong  in  her  class  than  in  higher  ones, 
because  with  them  a  good  name  is  more  nearly  an  only 
treasure.  To  be  come  of  honest,  decent  folk  is  with 
them  equivalent  to  what  in  a  higher  class  would  be 
called  coming  of  gentle  blood.  Then  Mary's  brother 
Mike,  in  his  soreness  at  Maggie's  disgrace,  had  not  failed 
to  blame  the  mother's  way  of  bringing  her  up,  after  the 
manner  of  the  world  generally  when  children  turn  out 
badly. 

"  She  might  have  expected  this.  She  ought  to  have 
known  it  would  come.  She  had  n't  held  her  in  tight 
enough ;  had  given  her  her  head  too  much ;  his  wife 
always  told  him  they  were  making  a  fool  of  the  girl." 

This  was  a  sharp  arrow  in  Mary's  breast;  because 
Mike's  wife,  Bridget,  was  one  on  whom  Mary  had  looked 
down,  as  in  no  way  an  equal  match  for  her  brother,  and 
her  consequent  want  of  cordiality  in  receiving  her  had 
rankled  in  Bridget's  mind,  so  that  she  was  forward  to 
take  advantage  of  Mary's  humiliation. 

It  is  not  merely  professed  enemies,  but  decent  family 
connections,  we  are  sorry  to  say,  who  in  time  of  trouble 
sometimes  say  "aha!  so  would  we  have  it."  All  whose 
advice  has  not  been  taken,  all  who  have  felt  themselves 


278  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

outshone  or  slighted,  are  prompt  with  the  style  of  con 
solation  exemplified  by  Job's  friends,  and  eager  above 
all  things  to  prove  to  those  in  trouble  that  they  have 
nobody  but  themselves  to  thank  for  it. 

So,  no  inconsiderable  part  of  Mary's  bitter  herbs  this 
day,  was  the  prick  and  sting  of  all  the  possible  things 
which  might  be  said  of  her  and  Maggie  by  Bridget  and 
Mike,  and  the  rest  of  the  family  circle  by  courtesy  in 
cluded  in  the  term  "her  best  friends."  Eva,  tender 
hearted  and  pitiful,  could  not  help  feeling  a  sympathetic 
cloud  coming  over  her  as  she  watched  poor  Mary's  woe- 
struck  and  dejected  air.  She  felt  quite  sure  that  Mag 
gie  had  listened,  and  overheard  Aunt  Maria's  philippic 
in  the  parlor,  and  that  thus  the  final  impulse  had  been 
given  to  send  her  back  to  her  miserable  courses ;  and 
somehow  Eva  could  not  help  a  vague  feeling  of  blame 
from  attaching  to  herself,  for  not  having  made  sure  that 
those  violent  and  cruel  denunciations  should  not  be 
overheard. 

"  I  ought  to  have  looked  and  made  sure,  when  I 
found  what  Aunt  Maria  was  at,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  If 
I  had  kept  Maggie  up  stairs,  this  would  not  have  hap 
pened."  But  then,  an  English  literary  man,  that  Harry 
thought  a  good  deal  of,  was  to  dine  there  that  night, 
and  Eva  felt  all  a  housekeeper's  enthusiasm  and  pride,  to 
have  everything  charming.  You  know  how  it  is,  sisters. 
Each  time  that  you  have  a  social  enterprise  in  hand  you 
put  your  entire  soul  into  it  for  the  time  being,  and  have 
a  complete  little  set  of  hopes  and  fears,  joys,  sorrows  and 
plans,  born  with  the  day  and  dying  with  the  morrow. 

Just  as  she  was  busy  arranging  her  flowers,  the  door 
bell  rang,  and  Jim  Fellows  came  in  with  a  basket  of  fruit. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  said  ;  "  Harry  told  me  you  were 
going  to  have  a  little  blow-out  to-night,  and  I  thought 
I'd  bring  in  a  contribution." 


A  DINNER   ON    WASHING  DAY.  279 

"  Oh  !  thanks,  Jim  ;  they  are  exactly  the  thing  I  was 
going  out  to  look  for.  How  lovely  of  you  !" 

"  Well,  they've  come  to  you  without  looking,  then," 
said  Jim.  "Any  commands  for  me?  Can't  I  help  you 
in  any  way?" 

"  No,  Jim,  unless — well,  you  know  my  good  Mary  is 
the  great  wheel  of  this  establishment,  and  if  she  breaks 
down  we  all  go  too — for  I  should  n't  know  what  to  do  a 
single  day  without  her." 

"Well,  what  has  happened  to  this  great  wheel?"  said 
Jim.  "  Has  it  a  cold  in  its  head,  or  what?" 

"  Come,  Jim,  don't  make  fun  of  my  metaphors ;  the 
fact  is,  that  Mary's  daughter,  Maggie,  has  run  off  again 
and  left  her." 

"Just  what  she  might  have  expected,"  said  Jim. 

"  No ;  Maggie  was  doing  very  well,  and  I  really 
thought  I  should  make  something  of  her.  She  thought 
everything  of  me,  and  I  could  get  along  with  her  per 
fectly  well,  and  I  found  her  very  ingenious  and  capable ; 
but  her  relations  all  took  up  against  her,  and  her  uncle 
came  in  last  night  and  talked  to  her  till  she  was  in  a 
perfect  fury." 

"Of  course,"  said  Jim,  "that's  the  world's  way;  a 
fellow  can't  repent  and  turn  quietly,  he  must  have  his 
sins  well  rubbed  into  him,  and  his  nose  held  to  the 
grindstone.  I  should  know  that  Maggie  would  flare  up 
under  that  style  of  operation ;  those  great  Jplack  eyes  of 
hers  are  not  for  nothing,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Well,  you  see  it  was  last  night,  while  I  was  up  at 
papa's,  that  her  uncle  came,  and  they  had  a  stormy  time, 
I  fancy ;  and  when  Harry  and  I  came  home  we  found 
Maggie  just  flying  out  of  the  door  in  desperation,  and  I 
brought  her  back,  and  quieted  her  down,  and  brought  her 
to  reason,  and  her  mother  too,  and  made  it  all  smooth 
and  right.  But,  this  morning,  came  in  Aunt  Maria — " 


280  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Jim  gave  a  significant  whistle. 

"Yes,  you  may  well  whistle.  You  see,  Maggie  once 
lived  with  Aunt  Maria,  and  she's  dead  set  against  her, 
and  came  to  make  me  turn  her  out  of  my  house,  if  she 
could.  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  look  of  withering 
scorn  and  denunciation  she  gave  Maggie  when  she 
opened  the  door ! — and  she  talked  about  her  so  loud  to 
me,  and  said  so  much  to  induce  me  to  turn  away  both 
her  and  Mary,  and  take  another  set  of  girls,  that  I  don't 
wonder  Maggie  went  off;  and  now  poor  Mary  is  quite 
broken-hearted.  It  makes  me  feel  sad  to  see  her  go 
about  her  work  so  forlorn  and  patient,  wiping  her  eyes 
every  once  in  a  while,  and  yet  doing  everything  for  me, 
like  the  good  soul  she  always  is." 

"By  George!"  said  Jim;  "I  wish  I  could  help  her. 
Well,  I'll  put  somebody  on  Maggie's  track  and  we'll  find 
her  out.  I  know  all  the  detectives  and  the  police — 
trust  us  newspaper  fellows  for  that — and  Maggie  is  a 
pretty  marked  article,  and  I  think  I  may  come  on  the 
track  of  her;  there  are  not  many  things  that  Jim  can't 
find  out,  when  he  sets  himself  to  work.  Meanwhile, 
have  you  any  errands  for  me  to  run,  or  any  message  to 
send  to  your  folks  ?  I  may  as  well  take  it,  while  I'm 
about  it." 

"Well,  yes,  Jim;  if  you'd  be  kind  enough,  as  you  go 
by  papa's,  to  ask  Angie  to  come  down  and  help  me.  She 
is  always  so  brisk  and  handy,  and  keeps  one  in  such 
good  spirits,  too." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Angie  is  always  up  and  dressed,  whoever 
wants  her,  and  is  good  for  any  emergency.  The  little 
woman  has  Christmas  tree  on  her  brain  just  now — for 
our  Sunday-school ;  only  the  other  night,  she  was  show 
ing  me  the  hoods  and  tippets  she  had  been  knitting  for 
it,  like  a  second  Dorcas — " 

"Yes,"  said  Eva,  "we  must  all  have  a  consultation 


A  DINNER   ON   WASHING  DAY.  281 

about  that  Christmas  tree.  I  wanted  to  see  Mr.  St.  John 
about  it.' 

"  Do  you  think  there  were  any  Christmas  trees  in  the 
first  centuries,"  said  Jim,  "  or  any  churchly  precedent 
for  them? — else  I  don't  see  how  St.  John  is  going  to  al 
low  such  a  worldly  affair  in  his  chapel. " 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  Mr.  St.  John  is  sensible.  He  listened 
with  great  interest  to  Angie,  the  other  night,  while  she 
was  telling  about  one  that  she  helped  get  up  last  year 
in  Dr.  Cushing's  Sunday-school  room,  and  he  seemed 
quite  delighted  with  the  idea;  and  Angie  and  Alice  and 
I  are  on  a  committee  to  get  a  list  of  children  and  look 
up  presents,  and  that  was  one  thing  I  wanted  to  talk 
about  to-night." 

"Well,  get  St. John  and  Angie  to  talking  tree  to 
gether,  and  she'll  edify  him.  St. John  is  O.  K.  about  all 
the  particulars  of  how  they  managed  in  the  catacombs, 
without  doubt,  and  he  gets  ahead  of  us  all  preaching 
about  the  primitive  Christians,  but  come  to  a  Christmas 
tree  for  New  York  street  boys  and  girls,  in  the  i9th  cen 
tury,  I'll  bet  on  Angie  to  go  ahead  of  him.  He'll  have 
to  learn  of  her — and  you  see  he  won't  find  it  hard  to 
take,  either.  Jim  knows  a  thing  or  two."  And  Jim 
cocked  his  head  on  one  side,  like  a  saucy  sparrow,  and 
looked  provokingly  knowing. 

"  Now,  Jim,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  Alice  says  I  mustn't  think  anything 
or  say  anything,  on  pain  of  her  high  displeasure.  But, 
you  just  watch  the  shepherd  and  Angie  to-night." 

"Jim,  you  provoking  creature,  you  mustn't  talk 
so." 

"  Bless  your  heart,  who  is  talking  so  ?  Am  I  saying 
anything?  Of  course  I'm  not  saying  anything.  Alice 
won't  let  me.  I  always  have  to  shut  my  eyes  and  look 
the  other  way  when  Angie  and  St.  John  are  around,  for 


282  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

fear  I  should  say  something  and  make  a  remark.  Jim 
says  nothing,  but  he  thinks  all  the  more." 

Now,  we'll  venture  to  say  that  there  isn't  a  happy 
young  wife  in  the  first  months  of  wifehood  that  isn't  pre 
disposed  to  hope  for  all  her  friends  a  happy  marriage,  as 
about  the  summit  of  human  bliss ;  and  so  Eva  was  not 
shocked  like  Alice  by  the  suggestion  that  her  rector 
might  become  a  candidate  for  the  sacrament  of  matri 
mony.  On  the  contrary,  it  occurred  to  her  at  once  that 
the  pretty,  practical,  lively,  efficient  little  Angie  might  be 
a  true  angel,  not  merely  of  church  and  Sunday-school, 
but  of  a  rector's  house.  He  was  ideal  and  theoretic,  and 
she  practical  and  common-sense;  yet  she  was  pretty 
enough,  and  picturesque,  and  fanciful  enough  for  an  ideal 
man  to  make  a  poem  of,  and  weave  webs  around,  and 
write  sonnets  to;  and  as  all  these  considerations  flashed 
at  once  upon  Eva's  mind,  she  went  on  settling  a  spray 
of  geranium  with  rose-buds,  a  pleased  dreamy  smile  on 
her  face.  After  a  moment's  pause,  she  said : 

"  Jim,  if  you  see  a  bird  considering  whether  to  build 
a  nest  in  the  tree  by  your  window,  and  want  him  there, 
the  way  is  to  keep  pretty  still  about  it  and  not  go  to  the 
window,  and  watch,  and  call  people,  saying, '  Oh,  see  here, 
there's  a  bird  going  to  build!'  Don't  you  see  the  sense 
of  my  parable  ?" 

44  Well,  why  do  you  talk  to  me  ?  Haven't  I  kept  away 
from  the  window,  and  walked  round  on  tip-toe  like  a  cat, 
and  only  given  the  quietest  look  out  of  the  corner  of  my 
eye?" 

"  Well,  it  seems  you  couldn't  help  calling  my  attention 
and  Alice's.  Don't  extend  the  circle  of  observers,  Jim." 

"See  if  I  do.  You'll  find  me  discretion  itself.  I 
shall  be  so  quiet  that  even  a  humming  bird's  nerves 
couldn't  be  disturbed.  Well,  good  by,  for  the  present." 

"  Oh,  but,  Jim,  don't  forget  to  do  what  you  can  about 


A   DINNER   OAr    WASHING  DAY.  283 

Maggie.  It  really  seems  selfish  in  me  to  be  absorbed  in 
my  own  affairs,  and  not  doing  anything  to  help  Mary, 
poor  thing,  when  she's  so  good  to  me." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  but  you  are  doing  all  you  can. 
I'll  see  about  it  right  away  and  report  to  you,"  said  Jim; 
"so,  au  revoir." 

Angie  came  in  about  lunch  time ;  the  two  sisters, 
once  at  their  tea  and  toast,  discussed  the  forthcoming 
evening's  preparations  and  the  Christmas  Sunday-school 
operations :  and  Eva,  with  the  light  of  Jim's  suggestions 
in  her  mind,  began  to  observe  certain  signs  of  increasing 
intimacy  between  Angie  and  Mr.  St.  John. 

"  O  Eva,  I  want  to  tell  you :  I  went  to  see  those 
poor  Prices,  Saturday  afternoon;  and  there  was  John,  just 
back  from  one  of  those  dreadful  sprees  that  he  will  have 
every  two  or  three  weeks.  You  never  saw  a  creature  so 
humble  and  so  sorry,  and  so  good,  and  so  anxious  to 
make  up  with  his  wife  and  me,  and  everybody  all  round, 
as  he  was.  He  was  sitting  there,  nursing  his  wife  and 
tending  his  baby,  just  as  handy  as  a  woman, — for  she, 
poor  thing,  has  had  a  turn  of  fever,  in  part,  I  think, 
brought  on  by  worry  and  anxiety ;  but  she  seemed  so 
delighted  and  happy  to  have  him  back ! — and  I  couldn't 
help  thinking  what  a  shame  it  is  that  there  should  be 
any  such  thing  as  rum,  and  that  there  should  be  people 
who  make  it  their  business  and  get  their  living  by  tempt 
ing  people  to  drink  it.  If  I  were  a  Queen,  I'd  shut  up 
all  the  drinking-shops  right  off!" 

"  I  fancy,  if  we  women  could  have  our  way,  we  should 
do  it  pretty  generally." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Angie.  "One 
of  the  worst  shops  in  John's  neighborhood  is  kept  by  a 
woman." 

"  Well,  it  seems  so  hopeless — this  weakness  of  these 
men,"  said  Eva. 


284  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Oh,  well,  never  despair,"  said  Angie.  "  I  found 
him  in  such  a  good  mood  that  I  could  say  anything  I 
wanted  to,  and  I  found  that  he  was  feeling  terribly  be 
cause  he  had  lost  his  situation  in  Sanders'  store  on  ac 
count  of  his  drinking  habits.  He  had  been  a  porter  and 
errand  boy  there,  and  he  is  so  obliging  and  quick  that 
he  is  a  great  favorite ;  but  they  got  tired  of  his  being  so 
unreliable,  and  had  sent  him  word  that  they  didn't  want 
him  any  more.  Well,  you  see,  here  was  an  opportunity. 
I  said  to  him  :  'John,  I  know  Mr.  Sanders,  and  if  you'll 
sign  a  solemn  pledge  never  to  touch  another  drop  of 
liquor,  or  go  into  a  place  where  it  is  sold,  I  will  try  and 
get  him  to  take  you  back  again.'  So  I  got  a  sheet  of 
paper  and  wrote  a  pledge,  strong  and  solemn,  in  a  good 
round  hand,  and  he  put  his  name  to  it  ;  and  just 
then  Mr.  St.  John  came  in  and  I  showed  it  to  him,  and 
he  spoke  beautifully  to  him,  and  prayed  with  him,  and  I 
really  do  hope,  now,  that  John  will  stand." 

"So,  Mr.  St.  John  visits  them?" 

"Oh,  to  be  sure;  ever  since  I  had  those  children  in 
my  class,  he  has  been  very  attentive  there.  I  often  hear 
of  his  calling;  and  when  he  was  walking  home  with  me 
afterwards,  he  told  me  about  that  article  of  Dr.  Camp 
bell's  and  advised  me  to  read  it.  He  said  it  had  given 
him  some  new  ideas.  He  called  this  family  my  little 
parish,  and  said  I  could  do  more  than  he  could.  Just 
think  of  our  rector  saying  that." 

Eva  did  think  of  it,  but  forbore  to  comment  aloud. 
"  Jim  was  right,"  she  said  to  herself. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

WHAT    THEY    TALKED    ABOUT. 

THE  dinner  party,  like  many  impromptu  social  ven 
tures,  was  a  success.  Mr.  Selby  proved  one  of 
that  delightful  class  of  English  travelers  who  travel  in 
America  to  see  and  enter  into  its  peculiar  and  individual 
life,  and  not  to  show  up  its  points  of  difference  from 
old-world  social  standards.  He  seemed  to  take  the  sense 
of  a  little  family  dinner,  got  up  on  short  notice,  in  which 
the  stereotyped  doctrine  of  courses  was  staadfastly  ig 
nored  ;  where  there  was  no  soup  or  fish,  and  only  a  good 
substantial  course  of  meat  and  vegetables,  with  a  slight 
dessert  of  fruit  and  confectionery ;  where  there  was  no 
black  servant,  with  white  gloves,  to  change  the  plates, 
but  only  respectable,  motherly  Mary,  who  had  tidied 
herself  and  taken  the  office  of  waiter,  in  addition  to  her 
services  as  cook. 

A  real  high-class  English  gentleman,  when  he  fairly 
finds  himself  out  from  under  that  leaden  pale  of  con 
ventionalities  which  weighs  down  elasticity  like  London 
fog  and  smoke,  sometimes  exhibits  all  the  hilarity  of  a 
boy  out  of  school  on  a  long  vacation,  and  makes  himself 
frisky  and  gamesome  to  a  degree  that  would  astonish  the 
solemn  divinities  of  insular  decorum.  Witness  the 
stories  of  the  private  fun  and  frolic  of  Thackeray  and 
Dickens,  on  whom  the  intoxicating  sense  of  social  free 
dom  wrought  results  sometimes  surprising  to  staid  Amer 
icans  ;  as  when  Thackeray  rode  with  his  heels  out  of  the 
carriage  window  through  immaculate  and  gaping  Boston 
and  Dickens  perpetrated  his  celebrated  walking  wager. 


286  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Mr.  Selby  was  a  rising  literary  man  in  the  London 
writing  world,  who  had  made  his  own  way  up  in  the 
world,  and  known  hard  times  and  hard  commons, 
though  now  in  a  lucrative  position.  It  would  have  been 
quite  possible,  by  spending  a  suitable  sum  and  deranging 
the  whole  house,  to  set  him  down  to  a  second-rate  imita 
tion  of  a  dull,  conventional  London  dinner,  with  waiters 
in  white  chokers,  and  protracted  and  circuitous  courses ; 
and  in  that  case  Mr.  Selby  would  have  frozen  into  a  stiff, 
well  preserved  Briton,  with  immaculate  tie  and  gloves, 
and  a  guarded  and  diplomatic  reserve  of  demeanor. 
Eva  would  have  been  nervously  thinking  of  the  various 
unusual  arrangements  of  the  dinner  table,  and  a  general 
stiffness  and  embarrassment  would  have  resulted.  Peo 
ple  who  entertain  strangers  from  abroad  often  re-enact 
the  mistake  of  the  two  Englishmen  who  traveled  all 
night  in  a  diligence,  laboriously  talking  broken  French 
to  each  other,  till  at  dawn  they  found  out  by  a  chance 
slip  of  the  tongue  that  they  were  both  English.  So, 
at  heart,  every  true  man,  especially  in  a  foreign  land,  is 
wanting  what  every  true  household  can  give  him — sin 
cere  homely  feeling,  the  sense  of  domesticity,  the  com 
fort  of  being  off  parade  and  among  friends;  and  Mr. 
Selby  saw  in  the  first  ten  minutes  that  this  was  what  he 
had  found  in  the  Hendersons'  house. 

In  the  hour  before  dinner,  Eva  had  shown  him  her 
ivies  and  her  ferns  and  her  manner  of  training  them,  and 
found  an  appreciate  observer  and  listener.  Mr.  Selby 
was  curious  about  American  interiors  and  the  detail  of 
domestic  life  among  people  of  moderate  fortune.  He 
was  interested  in  the  modes  of  warming  and  lighting, 
and  arranging  furniture,  etc. ;  and  soon  Eva  and  he 
were  all  over  the  house,  while  she  eloquently  explained 
to  him  the  working  of  the  furnace,  the  position  of 
the  water  pipes,  and  the  various  comforts  and  con- 


CONFIDENCES. 

'In  due  course  followed  an  introduction  to  '  my  wife,'  -whose  photo 
graph  Mr.  Sclby  ivore  dutifully  in  his  coat-pocket  over  the  exact 
region  of  the  heart" — p.  287. 


WHAT   THEY   TALKED  ABOUT.  287 

veniences  which  they  had  introduced  into  their  little 
territories. 

"I've  got  a  little  box  of  my  own  at  Kentish  town, 
Mr.  Selby  said,  in  a  return  burst  of  confidence,  "and  I 
shall  tell  my  wife  about  some  of  your  contrivances ;  the 
fact  is,"  he  added,  "we  literary  people  need  to  learn  all 
these  ways  of  being  comfortable  at  small  expense.  The 
problem  of  our  age  is,  that  of  perfecting  small  establish 
ments  for  people  of  moderate  means ;  and  I  must  say,  I 
think  it  has  been  carried  further  in  your  country  than 
with  us." 

"  In  due  course  followed  an  introduction  to  "  my 
wife,"  whose  photograph  Mr.  Selby  wore  dutifully  in  his 
coat-pocket,  over  the  exact  region  of  the  heart ;  and  then 
came  "my  son,"  four  years  old,  with  all  his  playthings 
round  him ;  and,  in  short,  before  an  hour,  Eva  and  he 
were  old  acquaintances,  ready  to  tell  each  other  family 
secrets. 

Alice  and  Angelique  were  delightful  girls  to  reinforce 
and  carry  out  the  home  charm  of  the  circle.  They  had 
eminently  what  belongs  to  the  best  class  of  American 
girls, — that  noble  frankness  of  manner,  that  fearless  giving 
forth  of  their  inner  nature,  which  comes  from  the  atmos 
phere  of  free  democratic  society.  Like  most  high-bred 
American  girls,  they  had  traveled,  and  had  opportuni 
ties  of  observing  European  society,  which  added  breadth 
to  their  range  of  conversation  without  taking  anything 
from  their  frank  simplicity.  Foreign  travel  produces 
two  opposite  kinds  of  social  effect,  according  to  charac 
ter.  Persons  who  are  narrow  in  their  education,  sensi 
tive  and  self-distrustful,  are  embarrassed  by  a  foreign  ex 
perience  :  they  lose  their  confidence  in  their  home  life,  in 
their  own  country  and  its  social  habitudes,  and  get  noth 
ing  adequate  in  return;  their  efforts  at  hospitality  are 
repressed  by  a  sort  of  mental  comparison  of  themselves 


288  WE   AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

with  foreign  models;  they  shrink  from,  entertaining 
strangers,  through  an  indefinite  fear  that  they  shall  come 
short  of  what  would  be  expected  somewhere  else.  But 
persons  of  more  breadth  of  thought  and  more  genuine 
courage  see  at  once  that  there  is  a  characteristic  Ameri 
can  home  life,  and  that  what  a  foreigner  seeks  in  a 
foreign  country  is  the  peculiarity  of  that  country,  and  not 
an  attempt  to  reproduce  that  which  has  become  stupid 
and  tedious  to  him  by  constant  repetition  at  home. 

Angelique  and  Alice  talked  readily  and  freely;  Alice 
with  the  calm,  sustained  good  sense  and  dignity  which 
was  characteristic  of  her,  and  Angelique  in  those  sunny 
jets  and  flashes  of  impulsive  gaiety  which  rise  like  a  foun 
tain  at  the  moment.  Given  the  presence  of  three  female 
personages  like  Eva,  Alice,  and  Angelique,  and  it  would 
not  be  among  the  possibilities  for  a  given  set  of  the  other 
sex  to  be  dull  or  heavy.  Then,  most  of  the  gentlemen 
were  more  or  less  habitues  of  the  house,  and  somewhat 
accorded  with  each  other,  like  instruments  that  have 
been  played  in  unison ;  and  it  is  not,  therefore  to  be 
wondered  at  that  Mr.  Selby  made  the  mental  comment 
that,  taken  at  home,  these  Americans  are  delightful,  and 
that  cultivated  American  women  are  particularly  so 
from  their  engaging  frankness  of  manner. 

There  would  be  a  great  deal  more  obedience  to  the 
apostolic  injunction,  "  Be  not  forgetful  to  entertain 
strangers,"  if  it  once  could  be  clearly  got  into  the  heads 
of  well-intending  people  what  it  is  that  strangers  want. 
What  do  you  want,  when  away  from  home,  in  a  strange 
city  ?  Is  it  not  the  warmth  of  the  home  fireside,  and 
the  sight  of  people  that  you  know  care  for  you  ?  Is  it 
not  the  blessed  privilege  of  speaking  and  acting  yourself 
out  unconstrainedly  among  those  who  you  know  under 
stand  you  ?  And  had  you  not  rather  dine  with  an  old 
friend  on  simple  cold  mutton,  offered  with  a  warm  heart, 


WHAT    THEY   TALKED  ABOUT.  289 

than  go  to  a  splendid  ceremonious  dinner  party  among 
people  who  don't  care  a  rush  for  you  ? 

Well,  then,  set  it  down  in  your  book  that  other  people 
are  like  you ;  and  that  the  art  of  entertaining  is  the  art 
of  really  caring  for  people.  If  you  have  a  warm  heart, 
congenial  tastes,  and  a  real  interest  in  your  stranger, 
don't  fear  to  invite  him,  though  you  have  no  best  dinner 
set,  and  your  existing  plates  are  sadly  chipped  at  the 
edges,  and  even  though  there  be  a  handle  broken  off 
from  the  side  of  your  vegetable  dish.  Set  it  down  in 
your  belief  that  you  can  give  something  better  than  a 
dinner,  however  good, — you  can  give  a  part  of  yourself. 
You  can  give  love,  good  will,  and  sympathy,  of  which 
there  has,  perhaps,  been  quite  as  much  over  cracked 
plates  and  restricted  table  furniture  as  over  Sevres  china 
and  silver. 

It  soon  appeared  that  Mr.  Selby,  like  other  sensible 
Englishmen,  had  a  genuine  interest  in  getting  below  the 
surface  life  of  our  American  world,  and  coming  to  the 
real  "  hard-pan  "  on  which  our  social  fabric  is  founded. 
He  was  full  of  intelligent  curiosity  as  to  the  particulars 
of  American  journalism,  its  management,  its  possibilities, 
its  remunerations  compared  with  those  of  England ;  and 
here  was  where  Bolton's  experience,  and  Jim  Fellows's 
many-sided  practical  observations,  came  out  strongly. 

Alice  was  delighted  with  the  evident  impression  that 
Jim  made  on  a  man  whose  good  opinion  appeared  to  be 
worth  having;  for  that  young  lady,  insensibly  perhaps  to 
herself,  held  a  sort  of  right  of  property  in  Jim,  such  as 
the  princesses  of  the  middle  ages  had  in  the  knights  that 
wore  their  colors,  and  Jim,  undoubtedly,  was  inspired  by 
the  idea  that  bright  eyes  looked  on,  to  do  his  devoir  man 
fully  in  the  conversation.  So  they  went  over  all  the 
chances  and  prospects  of  income  and  living  for  literary 
men  and  journalists  in  the  two  countries ;  the  facilities 

N 


290  WE  AMD   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

for  marriage,  and  the  establishment  of  families,  including 
salaries,  rents,  prices  of  goods,  etc.  In  the  course  of  the 
conversation,  Mr.  Selby  made  many  frank  statements  of 
his  own  personal  experience  and  observation,  which  were 
responded  to  with  equal  frankness  on  the  part  of  Harry 
and  Eva  and  others,  till  it  finally  seemed  as  if  the  whole 
company  were  as  likely  to  become  au  courant  of  each 
other's  affairs  as  a  party  of  brothers  and  sisters.  Eva, 
sitting  at  the  head,  like  a  skillful  steerswoman,  turned 
the  helm  of  conversation  adroitly,  now  this  way  and  now 
that,  to  draw  out  the  forces  of  all  her  guests,  and  bring 
each  into  play.  She  introduced  the  humanitarian  ques 
tions  of  the  day ;  and  the  subject  branched  at  once  upon 
what  was  doing  by  the  Christian  world :  the  high  church, 
the  ritualists,  the  broad  church,  and  the  dissenters  all 
rose  upon  the  carpet,  and  St.  John  was  wide  awake  and 
earnest  in  his  inquiries.  In  fact,  an  eager  talking  spirit 
descended  upon  them,  and  it  was  getting  dark  when  Eva 
made  the  move  to  go  to  the  parlor,  where  a  bright  fire 
and  coffee  awaited  them. 

"  I  always  hate  to  drop  very  dark  shades  over  my 
windows  in  the  evening,"  said  Eva,  as  she  went  in  and 
began  letting  down  the  lace  curtains ;  "  I  like  to  have  the 
firelight  of  a  pleasant  room  stream  out  into  the  dark, 
and  look  cheerful  and  hospitable  outside ;  for  that  reason 
I  don't  like  inside  shutters.  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Selby, 
how  your  English  arrangements  used  to  impress  me  ? 
They  were  all  meant  to  be  very  delightful  to  those  in- 
side,  but  freezingly  repulsive  to  those  without.  Your 
beautiful  grounds  that  one  longs  to  look  at,  are  guarded 
by  high  stone-walls  with  broken  bottles  on  the  top,  to 
keep  one  from  even  hoping  to  get  over.  Now,  I  think 
beautiful  grounds  are  a  public  charity,  and  a  public  edu 
cation;  and  a  man  shouldn't  build  a  high  wall  round 
them,  so  that  even  the  sight  of  his  trees,  and  the  odor 


WHAT   THEY   TALKED  ABOUT.  291 

of  his  flowers,  should  be  denied  to  his  poor  neigh 
bors." 

"  It  all  comes  of  our  national  love  of  privacy,"  said 
Mr.  Selby ;  "  it  isn't  stinginess,  I  beg  you  to  believe,  Mrs. 
Henderson,  but  shyness, — you  find  our  hearts  all  right 
when  you  get  in." 

"  That  we  do;  but,  I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  Selby,  oughtn't 
shyness  to  be  put  down  in  the  list  of  besetting  sins,  and 
fought  against ;  isn't  it  the  enemy  of  brotherly  kindness 
and  charity?" 

"  Certainly,  Mrs.  Henderson,  you  practice  so  delight 
fully,  one  cannot  find  fault  with  your  preaching,"  said 
Mr.  Selby ;  "  but,  after  all,  is  it  a  sin  to  want  to  keep 
one's  private  life  to  himself,  and  unexposed  to  the  com 
ments  of  vulgar,  uncongenial  natures  ?  It  seems  to  me, 
if  you  will  pardon  the  suggestion,  that  there  is  too  little 
of  this  sense  of  privacy  in  America.  Your  public  men, 
for  instance,  are  required  to  live  in  glass  cases,  so  that 
they  may  be  constantly  inspected  behind  and  before. 
Your  press  interviewers  beset  them  on  every  hand,  take 
down  their  chance  observations,  record  everything  they 
say  and  do,  and  how  they  look  and  feel  at  every  moment 
of  their  lives.  I  confess  that  I  would  rather  be  comfort 
ably  burned  at  the  stake  at  once  than  to  be  one  of  your 
public  men  in  America;  and  all  this  comes  of  your  not 
being  shy  and  reserved.  It's  a  state  of  things  impossible 
in  the  kind  of  country  that  has  high  walls  with  glass  bot 
tles  around  its  private  grounds." 

"He  has  us  there,  Eva,"  said  Harry;  "our  vulgar, 
jolly,  democratic  level  of  equality  over  here  produces 
just  these  insufferable  results;  there's  no  doubt  about 
it." 

"  Well,"  said  Jim,  "  I  have  one  word  to  say  about 
newspaper  reporters.  Poor  boys !  everybody  is  down 
on  them,  nobody  has  a  bit  of  charity  for  them ;  and  yet, 


292  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

bless  you,  it  isn't  their  fault  if  they're  impertinent  and 
prying.  That  is  what  they  are  engaged  for  and  paid  for, 
and  kicked  out  if  they're  not  up  to*  Why,  look  you, 
here  are  four  or  five  big  dailies  running  the  general 
gossip-mill  for  these  great  United  States,  and  if  any  one 
of  them  gets  a  bit  of  news  before  another,  it's  a  victory 
— a  "beat."  Well,  if  the  boys  are  not  sharp,  if  other 
papers  get  things  that  they  don't  or  can't,  off  they  must 
go ;  and  the  boys  have  mothers  and  sisters  to  support — 
and  want  to  get  wives  some  day — and  the  reporting  busi 
ness  is  the  first  round  of  the  ladder ;  if  they  get  pitched 
off,  it's  all  over  with  them." 

"  Precisely,"  said  Mr.  Selby ;  "  it  is,  if  you  will  pardon 
my  saying  it,  it  is  your  great  American  public  that  wants 
these  papers  and  takes  them,  and  takes  the  most  of  those 
that  have  the  most  gossip  in  them,  that  are  to  blame. 
They  make  the  reporters  what  they  are,  and  keep  them 
what  they  are,  by  the  demand  they  keep  up  for  their 
wares ;  and  so,  I  say,  if  Mrs.  Henderson  will  pardon  me, 
that,  as  yet,  I  am  unable  to  put  down  our  national  shy 
ness  in  the  catalogue  of  sins  to  be  fought  against.  I 
confess  I  would  rather,  if  I  should  ever  happen  to  have 
any  literary  fame,  I  would  rather  shut  my  shutters,  even 
ings,  and  have  high  walls  with  glass  bottles  on  top  around 
my  grounds,  and  not  have  every  vulgar,  impertinent  fel 
low  in  the  community  commenting  on  my  private  affairs. 
Now,  in  England,  we  have  all  arrangements  to  keep 
our  families  to  ourselves,  and  to  such  intimates  as  we 
may  approve." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  knew  it  to  my  cost  when  I  was  in  En 
gland,"  said  Eva.  "  You  might  be  in  a  great  hotel  with 
all  the  historic  characters  of  your  day,  and  see  no  more 
of  them  than  if  you  were  in  America.  They  came  in 
close  family  carriages,  they  passed  to  close  family  rooms, 
they  traveled  in  railroad  compartments  specially  secured 


WHAT   THEY   TALKED  ABOUT.  293 

to  themselves,  and  you  knew  no  more  about  them  than 
if  you  had  stayed  at  home." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Selby,  "you  describe  what  I  think 
are  very  nice,  creditable,  comfortable  ways  of  managing." 

"With  not  even  a  newspaper  reporter  to  tell  the 
people  what  they  were  talking  about,  and  what  gowns 
their  wives  and  daughters  wore,"  said  Bolton,  dryly.  "  I 
confess,  of  the  two  extremes,  the  English  would  most 
accord  with  my  natural  man." 

"  So  it  is  with  all  of  us,"  said  St.  John ;  "  the  question 
is,  though,  whether  this  strict  caste  system  which  links 
people  in  certain  lines  and  ruts  of  social  life,  doesn't 
make  it  impossible  to  have  that  knowledge  of  one  another 
as  human  beings  which  Christianity  requires.  It  struck 
me  in  England  that  the  high  clergy  had  very  little  prac 
tical  comprehension  of  the  feelings  of  the  lower  classes, 
and  their  wives  and  daughters  less.  They  were  prepared 
to  dispense  charity  to  them  from  above,  but  not  to  study 
them  on  the  plane  of  equal  intercourse.  They  never 
mingle,  any  more  than  oil  and  water;  and  that,  I  think,  is 
why  so  much  charity  in  England  is  thrown  away — the 
different  classes  do  not  understand  each  other,  and  never 
can." 

"Yes,"  said  Harry;  "with  all  the  disadvantages  and 
disagreeable  results  of  our  democratic  jumble  in  society, 
our  common  cars  where  all  ride  side  by  side,  our  hotel 
parlors  where  all  sit  together,  and  our  tables  (T  hote  where 
all  dine  together,  we  do  know  each  other  better,  and 
there  is  less  chance  of  class  misunderstandings  and  jeal 
ousies,  than  in  England." 

"  For  my  part,  I  sympathize  with  Mr.  Selby,  accord 
ing  to  the  flesh,"  said  Mr.  St.  John.  "  The  sheltered 
kind  of  life  one  leads  in  English  good  society  is  what  I 
prefer ;  but,  if  our  Christianity  is  good  for  anything,  we 
cannot  choose  what  we  prefer. " 


294  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  I  have  often  thought,"  said  Eva,  "that  the  pressure 
of  vulgar  notoriety,  the  rush  of  the  crowd  around  our 
Saviour,  was  evidently  the  same  kind  of  trial  to  him  that 
it  must  be  to  every  refined  and  sensitive  nature ;  and  yet 
how  constant  and  how  close  was  his  affiliation  with  the 
lowest  and  poorest  in  his  day.  He  lived  with  them,  he 
gave  them  just  what  we  shrink  from  giving — his  personal 
presence — himself. " 

Eva  spoke  with  a  heightened  color  and  with  a  burst 
of  self-forgetful  enthusiasm.  There  was  a  little  pause 
afterwards,  as  if  a  strain  of  music  had  suddenly  broken 
into  the  conversation,  and  Mr.  Selby,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  said : 

"  Mrs.  Henderson,  I  give  way  to  that  suggestion. 
Sometimes,  for  a  moment,  I  get  a  glimpse  that  Chris 
tianity  is  something  higher  and  purer  than  any  conven 
tional  church  shows  forth,  an^  I  feel  that  we  nominal 
Christians  are  not  living  on  that  plane,  and  that  if  we 
only  could  live  thus,  it  would  settle  the  doubts  of  modern 
skeptics  faster  than  any  Bampton  Lectures." 

"Well,"  said  Eva,  "it  does  seem  as  if  that  which 
is  best  for  society  on  the  whole  is  always  gained  by  a 
sacrifice  of  what  is  agreeable.  Think  of  the  picturesque 
scenery,  and  peasantry,  and  churches,  and  ceremonials  in 
Italy,  and  what  a  perfect  scattering  and  shattering  of  all 
such  illusions  would  be  made  by  a  practical,  common- 
sense  system  of  republican  government,  that  would  make 
the  people  thrifty,  prosperous,  and  happy!  The  good 
is  not  always  tfye  beautiful." 

"Yes,"  said  Bolton  to  Mr.  Selby,  "and  you  Liberals 
in  England  are  assuredly  doing  your  best  to  bring  on 
the  very  state  of  society  which  produces  the  faults  that 
annoy  you  here.  The  reign  of  the  great  average  masses 
never  can  be  so  agreeable  to  taste  as  that  of  the  cultured 
few." 


WHAT   THEY   TALKED  ABOUT.  295 

But  we  will  not  longer  follow  a  conversation  which 
was  kept  up  till  a  late  hour  around  the  blazing  hearth. 
The  visit  was  one  of  those  happy  ones  in  which  a  man 
enters  a  house  a  stranger  and  leaves  it  a  friend.  When 
all  were  gone,  Harry  and  Eva  sat  talking  it  over  by  the 
decaying  brands. 

"  Harry,  you  venturesome  creature,  how  dared  you 
send  such  a  company  in  upon  me  on  washing  day?" 

"  Because,  my  dear,  I  knew  you  were  the  one  woman 
in  a  thousand  that  could  face  an  emergency  and  never 
lose  either  temper  or  presence  of  mind ;  and  you  see  I 
was  right." 

"  But  it  isn't  me  that  you  should  praise,  Harry ;  it's 
my  poor,  good  Mary.  Just  think  how  patiently  she 
turned  out  of  her  way  and  changed  all  her  plans,  and 
worked  and  contrived  for  me,  when  her  poor  old  heart 
was  breaking !  I  must  run  up  now  and  say  how  much  I 
thank  her  for  making  everything  go  off  so  well." 

Eva  tapped  softly  at  the  door  of  Mary's  room. 
There  was  no  answer.  She  opened  it  softly.  Mary  was 
kneeling  with  clasped  hands  before  her  crucifix,  and 
praying  softly  and  earnestly ;  so  intent  that  she  did  not 
hear*  Eva  coming  in.  Eva  waited  a  moment,  and  then 
kneeled  down  beside  her  and  softly  put  her  arm  around 
her. 

"Oh,  dear,  Miss  Eva!"  said  Mary,  "my  heart's  just 
breaking." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,  my  poor  Mary." 

"  It's  so  cold  and  dark  out-doors,  and  where  is  she?" 
said  Mary,  with  a  shudder.  "  Oh,  I  wish  I'd  been  kinder 
to  her,  and  not  scolded  her." 

"  Oh,  dear  Mary,  don't  reproach  yourself;  you  did  it 
for  the  best.  We  will  pray  for  her,  and  the  dear  Father 
will  hear  us,  I  know  he  will.  The  Good  Shepherd  will 
go  after  her  and  find  her." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A   MISTRESS    WITHOUT    A    MAID. 

[Eva  to  Harry's  Mother.] 

VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION. 

DEAR  MOTHER  :  I  have  kept  you  well  informed  of 
all  our  prosperities  in  undertaking  and  doing :  how 
everything  we  have  set  our  hand  to  has  turned  out  beau 
tifully  ;  how  "  our  evenings  "  have  been  a  triumphant 
success ;  and  how  we  and  our  neighbors  are  all  coming 
into  the  spirit  of  love  and  unity,  getting  acquainted,  min 
gling  and  melting  into  each  other's  sympathy  and  knowl 
edge.  I  have  had  the  most  delightful  run  of  compli 
ments  about  my  house,  as  so  bright,  so  cheerful,  so 
social  and  cosy,  and  about  my  skill  in  managing  to 
always  have  every  thing  so  nice,  and  in  entertaining  with 
so  little  parade  and  trouble,  that  I  really  began  to  plume 
myself  on  something  very  uncommon  in  the  way  of  what 
Aunt  Prissy  Diamond  calls  "  faculty."  Well,  you  know, 
next  in  course  after  the  Palace  Beautiful  comes  the  Val 
ley  of  Humiliation — whence  my  letter  is  dated — where  I 
am  at  this  present  writing.  Honest  old  John  Bunyan 
says  that,  although  people  do  not  descend  into  this  place 
with  a  very  good  grace,  but  with  many  a  sore  bruise  and 
tumble,  yet  the  air  thereof  is  mild  and  refreshing,  and 
many  sweet  flowers  grow  here  that  are  not  found  in  more 
exalted  regions. 

I  have  not  found  the  flowers  yet,  and  feel  only  the 
soreness  and  bruises  of  the  descent.  To  drop  the  met 
aphor:  I  have  been  now  three  days  conducting  my 


A   MISTRESS    WITHOUT  A   MAID.  297 

establishment  without  Mary,  and  with  no  other  assistant 
than  her  daughter,  the  little  ten-year-old  midget  I  told 
you  about.  You  remember  about  poor  Maggie,  and 
what  we  were  trying  to  do  for  her,  and  how  she  fled  from 
our  house?  Well,  Jim  Fellows  set  the  detectives  upon 
her  track,  and  the  last  that  was  heard  of  her,  she  had 
gone  up  to  Poughkeepsie ;  and,  as  Mary  has  relations 
somewhere  in  that  neighborhood,  she  thought,  perhaps, 
if  she  went  immediately,  she  should  find  her  among  them. 
The  dear,  faithful  soul  felt  dreadfully  about  leaving  me, 
knowing  that,  as  to  all  practical  matters,  I  am  a  poor 
"sheep  in  the  wilderness;"  and  if  I  had  made  any  oppo 
sition,  or  argued  against  it,  I  suppose  that  I  might  have 
kept  her  from  going,  but  I  did  not.  I  did  all  I  could  to 
hurry  her  off,  and  talked  heroically  about  how  I  would 
try  to  get  along  without  her,  and  little  Midge  swelled 
with  importance,  and  seemed  to  long  for  the  opportunity 
to  display  her  latent  powers;  and  so  Mary  departed 
suddenly  one  morning,  and  left  me  in  possession  of  the 
field. 

The  situation  was  the  graver  that  we  had  a  gentleman 
invited  to  dinner,  and  Mary  had  not  time  even  to  stuff 
the  turkey,  as  she  had  to  hurry  off  to  the  cars.  "  What 
will  you  do,  Miss  Eva?"  she  said,  ruefully;  and  I  said 
cheerily :  "  Oh,  never  fear,  Mary;  I  never  found  a  situa 
tion  yet  that  I  was  not  adequate  to,"  and  I  saw  her  out 
of  the  door,  and  then  turned  to  my  kitchen  and  my  tur 
key.  My  soul  was  fired  with  energy.  I  would  prove  to 
Harry  what  a  wonderful  and  unexplored  field  of  domestic 
science  lay  in  my  little  person.  Everything  should  be  so 
perfect  that  the  absence  of  Mary  should  not  even  be  sus 
pected  ! 

So  I  came  airily  upon  the  stage  of  action,  and  took 
an  observation  of  the  field.  This  turkey  should  be 
stuffed,  of  course;  turkeys  always  were  stuffed;  but 


298  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

what  with?  How  very  shadowy  and  indefinite  my 
knowledge  grew,  as  I  contemplated  those  yawning  rifts 
and  caverns  which  were  to  be  rilled  up  with  something 
savory — I  didn't  precisely  know  what !  But  the  cook 
book  came  to  my  relief.  I  read  and  studied  the 
directions,  and  proceeded  to  explore  for  the  articles. 
"  Midge,  where  does  your  mother  keep  the  sweet  herbs?" 
Midge  was  prompt  and  alert  in  her  researches  and 
brought  them  to  light,  and  I  proceeded  gravely  to  meas 
ure  and  mix,  while  Midge,  delighted  at  the  opportunity 
of  exploring  forbidden  territory,  began  a  miscellaneous 
system  of  rummaging  and  upsetting  in  Mary's  orderly 
closets.  "Here's  the  mustard,  ma'am,  and  here's  the 
French  mustard,  and  here's  the  vanilla,  and  the  cloves  is 
here,  and  the  nutmeg-grater,  ma'am,  and  the  nutmegs  is 
here;"  and  so  on,  till  I  was  half  crazy. 

"  Midge,  put  all  those  things  back  and  shut  the  cup 
board  door,  and  stop  talking,"  said  I,  decisively.  And 
Midge  obeyed. 

"  Now,"  said  I,  "  I  wonder  where  Mary  keeps  her 
needles;  this  must  be  sewed  up." 

Midge  was  on  hand  again,  and  pulled  forth  needles, 
and  thread,  and  twine,  and  after  some  pulling  and  pinch 
ing  of  my  fingers,  and  some  unsuccessful  struggles  with 
the  stiff  wings  that  wouldn't  lie  down,  and  the  stiff  legs 
that  would  kick  out,  my  turkey  was  fairly  bound  and 
captive,  and  handsomely  awaiting  his  destiny. 

"  Now,  Midge,"  said  I,  triumphant ;  "  open  the  oven 
door!" 

"  Oh !  please,  ma'am,  it's  only  ten  o'clock.  You 
don't  want  to  roast  him  all  day." 

Sure  enough ;  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  Our  din 
ner  hour  was  five  o'clock;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  the  idea  of  time  as  connected  with  a  roast  turkey 
rose  in  my  head. 


A   MISTRESS    WITHOUT  A    MAID.  299 

"Midge,  when  does  your  mother  put  the  turkey  in?" 

"Oh!  not  till  some  time  in  the  afternoon,"  said 
Midge,  wisely. 

"  How  long  does  it  take  a  turkey  to  roast  ?"  said  I. 

"  Oh !  a  good  while,"  said  Midge,  confidently,  "  'cord- 
in'  as  how  large  they  is." 

I  turned  to  my  cook-book,  and  saw  that  so  much 
time  must  be  given  to  so  many  pounds ;  but  I  had  not 
the  remotest  idea  how  many  pounds  there  were  in  the 
turkey.  So  I  set  Midge  to  cleaning  the  silver,  and  ran 
across  the  way,  to  get  light  of  Miss  Dorcas. 

How  thankful  I  was  for  the  neighborly  running-in 
terms  on  which  I  stood  with  my  old  ladies ;  it  stood  me 
in  good  stead  in  this  time  of  need.  I  ran  in  at  the  back 
door  and  found  Miss  Dorcas  in  her  kitchen,  presiding 
over  some  special  Eleusinean  mysteries  in  the  way  of 
preserves.  The  good  soul  had  on  a  morning-cap  calcu 
lated  to  strike  terror  into  an  inexperienced  beholder,  but 
her  face  beamed  with  benignity,  and  she  entered  into  the 
situation  at  once. 

"  Cookery  books  are  not  worth  a  fly  in  such  cases," 
she  remarked,  sententiously.  "  You  must  use  your  judg 
ment." 

"  But  what  if  you  haven't  got  any  judgment  to  use?" 
said  I.  "I  haven't  a  bit." 

"  Well,  then,  dear  child,  you  must  use  Dinah's,  as  I 
do.  Dinah  can  tell  to  a  T,  how  long  a  turkey  takes  to 
roast,  by  looking  at  it.  Here,  Dinah,  run  over,  and 
'  talk  turkey'  to  Mrs.  Henderson." 

Dinah  went  back  with  me,  boiling  over  with  giggle. 
She  laughed  so  immoderately  over  my  turkey  that  I  be 
gan  to  fear  I  had  made  some  disgraceful  blunder;  but  I 
was  relieved  by  a  facetious  poke  in  the  side  which  she 
gave  me,  declaring : 

"  Lord's  sakes   alive,  Mis'  Henderson,  you's  dun  it 


300  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

like  a  bawn  cook,  you  has.  Land  sake !  but  it  just  kills 
me  to  see  ladies  work,"  she  added,  going  into  another 
chuckle  of  delight.  "Waall,  now,  Mis'  Henderson,  dat 
'are  turkey  '11  want  a  mighty  sight  of  doin'.  Tell  ye 
what — I'll  come  over  and  put  him  in  for  you,  'bout  three 
o'clock,"  she  concluded,  giving  me  a  matronizing  pat  on 
the  back. 

"Besides,"  said  little  Midge,  wisely,  "there's  all  the 
chambers  and  the  parlors  to  do." 

Sure  enough  !  I  had  forgotten  that  beds  do  not  make 
themselves,  nor  chambers  arrange  themselves,  as  always 
had  seemed  to  me  before.  But  I  went  at  the  work,  with 
little  Midge  for  handmaid,  guiding  her  zeal  and  directing 
and  superintending  her  somewhat  erratic  movements, 
till  bedrooms,  parlors,  house,  were  all  in  wonted  order. 
In  the  course  of  this  experience,  it  occurred  to  me  a 
number  of  times  how  much  activity,  and  thought,  and 
care  and  labor  of  some  one  went  to  make  the  foundation 
on  which  the  habitual  ease,  quiet  and  composure  of  my 
daily  life  was  built ;  and  I  mentally  voted  Mary  a  place 
among  the  saints. 

Punctually  to  appointment,  Dinah  came  over  and 
lifted  my  big  turkey  into  the  oven,  and  I  shut  the  door 
on  him,  and  thought  my  dinner  was  fairly  under  way. 

But  the  kitchen  stove,  which  always  seemed  to  me 
the  most  matter-of-fact,  simple,  self-evident  verity  in 
nature,  suddenly  became  an  inscru  :able  labyrinth  of 
mystery  in  my  eyes.  After  putting  in  my  turkey,  I  went 
on  inspecting  my  china-closet,  and  laying  out  napkins, 
and  peering  into  preserve-jars,  till  half  an  hour  had 
passed,  when  I  thought  of  taking  a  peep  at  him.  There 
he  lay,  scarcely  warmed  through,  with  a  sort  of  chilly 
whiteness  upon  him. 

"  Midge,"  I  cried,  "  why  don't  this  fire  burn  ?  This 
turkey  isn't  cooking." 


A   MISTRESS    WITHOUT  A   MAID.  301 

"Oh,  dear  me,  mum!  you've  forgot  the  drafts  is 
shut,"  said  Midge,  just  as  if  I  had  ever  thought  of 
drafts,  or  supposed  there  was  any  craft  or  mystery  about 
them. 

Midge,  however,  proceeded  to  open  certain  mysteri 
ous  slides,  whereat  the  stove  gave  a  purr  of  satisfaction, 
which  soon  broadened  into  a  roar. 

"  That  will  do  splendidly,"  said  I ;  "and  now,  Midge, 
go  and  get  the  potatoes  and  turnips,  peel  them,  and  have 
them  ready." 

The  stove  roared  away  merrily,  and  I  went  on  with 
my  china-closet  arrangements,  laying  out  a  dessert,  till 
suddenly  I  smelled  a  smell  of  burning.  I  went  into  the 
kitchen,  and  found  the  stove  raging  like  a  great  red 
dragon,  and  the  top  glowing  hot,  and,  opening  the  oven 
door,  a  puff  of  burning  fume  flew  in  my  face. 

"Oh,  Midge,  Midge,"  I  cried,  "what  is  the  matter? 
The  turkey  is  all  burning  up!"  and  Midge  came  running 
from  the  cellar. 

"  Why,  mother  shuts  them  slides  part  up,  when  the 
fire  gets  agoing  too  fast,"  said  Midge — "so;"  and  Midge 
manipulated  the  mysterious  slides,  and  the  roaring  mon 
ster  grew  calm. 

But  my  turkey  needed  to  be  turned,  and  I  essayed  to 
turn  him — a  thing  which  seems  the  simplest  thing  in  life, 
till  one  tries  it  and  becomes  convinced  of  the  utter  de 
pravity  of  matter.  The  wretched  contrary  bird  of  evil ! 
how  he  slipped  and  slid,  and  went  every  way  but  the 
right  way !  How  I  wrestled  with  him,  getting  hot  and 
combative,  outwardly  and  inwardly !  How  I  burned  my 
hand  on  the  oven  door,  till  finally  over  he  flounced, 
spattering  hot  gravy  all  over  my  hand  and  the  front 
breadth  of  my  dress.  I  had  a  view  then  that  I  never  had 
had  before  of  the  amount  of  Christian  patience  needed 
by  a  cook.  I  really  got  into  quite  a  vengeful  state  of 


302  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

feeling  with  the  monster,  and  shut  the  oven  door  with  a 
malignant  bang,  as  Hensel  and  Gretel  did  when  they 
burned  the  old  witch  in  the  fairy  story. 

But  now  came  the  improvising  of  my  dessert !  I  had 
projected  an  elegant  arrangement  of  boiled  custard,  with 
sponge-cake  at  the  bottom,  and  feathery  snow  of  egg- 
froth  on  top — a  showy  composition,  which,  when  dis 
played  in  a  high  cut-glass 'dish,  strikingly  ornaments  the 
table. 

I  felt  entirely  equal  to  boiled  custard.  I  had  seen 
Mary  make  it  dozens  of  times.  I  knew  just  how  many 
eggs  went  to  the  quart  of  milk,  and  that  it  must  be  stirred 
gently  all  the  time,  in  a  kettle  of  boiling  water,  till  the 
golden  moment  of  projection  arrived.  So  I  stirred  and 
stirred,  with  a  hot  face  and  smarting  hands ;  for  the 
burned  places  burned  so  much  worse  in  the  heat  as  to 
send  a  doubt  through  my  mind  whether  I  ever  should 
have  grace  enough  to  be  a  martyr  at  the  stake,  for  any 
faith  or  cause  whatever. 

But  I  bore  all  for  the  sake  of  my  custard;  when,  oh ! 
from  some  cruel,  mysterious,  unexplained  cause,  just  at 
the  last  moment,  the  golden  creamy  preparation  sud 
denly  separated  into  curd  and  whey,  leaving  my  soul  des 
olate  within  me ! 

What  had  I  done?  What  had  I  omitted?  I  was 
sure  every  rite  and  form  of  the  incantation  had  been 
performed  just  as  I  had  seen  Mary  do  it  hundreds  of 
times;  yet  hers  proved  a  rich,  smooth,  golden  cream, 
and  mine  unsightly  curd  and  watery  whey ! 

The  mysteriousness  of  natural  laws  was  never  so 
borne  in  upon  me.  There  is  a  kink  in  every  one  of 
them,  meant  to  puzzle  us.  In  my  distress,  I  ran  across 
to  the  back  door  again  and  consulted  Dinah. 

*'  What  can  be  the  matter,  Dinah  ?  My  custard  won't 
come,  when  I've  mixed  everything  exactly  right,  accord- 


A   MISTRESS    WITHOUT  A   MAID.  303 

ing  to  the  rules;  and  it's  all  turned  to  curd  and 
whey!" 

"Land  sake,  missis,  it's  jest  cause  it  will  do  so 
sometimes — dat  are's  de  reason,"  said  Dinah,  with  the 
certainty  of  a  philosopher.  "  Soft  custard  is  jest  de  ag- 
gravatinest  thing!  you  don't  never  know  when  it's  goin' 
to  be  contrary  and  flare  up  agin  you." 

"Well,  Dinah,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  "you  try  your  luck 
with  some  of  our  fresh  morning's  milk — you  always  have 
luck — and  carry  it  over  to  Mrs.  Henderson." 

The  dear  old  angel !  No  morning  cap,  however  fear 
ful,  could  disguise  her.  I  fell  upon  her  neck  and  kissed 
her,  then  and  there,  she  was  so  good !  She  is  the  best 
old  soul,  mother,  and  I  feel  proud  of  having  discovered 
her  worth.  I  told  her  how  I  did  hope  some  time  she 
would  let  me  do  something  for  her,  and  we  had  quite  a 
time,  pledging  our  friendship  to  each  other  in  the  kitchen. 

Well,  Dinarh  brought  over  the  custard,  thick  and 
smooth,  and  I  arranged  it  in  my  high  cut-glass  dish  and 
covered  it  with  foamy  billows  of  whites  of  egg  tipped 
off  with  sparkles  of  jelly,  so  that  Dinah  declared  that  it 
looked  as  well  "as  dem  perfectioners  could  do  it;"  and 
she  staid  to  take  my  turkey  out  for  me  at  the  dinner 
hour ;  and  I,  remembering  my  past  struggle  and  burned 
fingers,  was  only  too  glad  to  humbly  accept  her  services. 

Dinah  is  not  a  beauty,  by  any  of  the  laws  of  art, 
but  she  did  look  beautiful  to  me,  when  I  left  her  getting 
up  the  turkey,  and  retired  to  wash  my  hot  cheeks  and 
burning  hands  and  make  my  toilette ;  for  I  was  to  appear 
serene  and  smiling  in  a  voluminous  robe,  and  with  unsul 
lied  ribbons,  like  the  queen  of  the  interior,  whose  morn 
ing  had  been  passed  in  luxurious  ease  and  ignorant  of  care. 

To  say  the  truth,  dear  mother,  I  was  so  tired  and 
worn  out  with  the  little  I  had  done  that  I  would  much 
rather  have  lain  down  for  a  nap  than  to  have  enacted  the 


304  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

part  of  charming  hostess.  Talk  about  women  meeting 
men  with  a  smile,  when  they  come  in  from  the  cares  of 
business  !  I  reflected  that,  if  this  sort  of  thing  went  on 
much  longer,  Harry  would  have  to  meet  me  with  a  smile, 
and  a  good  many  smiles,  to  keep  up  my  spirits  at  this  end 
of  the  lever.  However,  it  was  but  for  once;  I  sum 
moned  my  energies  and  was  on  time,  nicely  dressed,  se 
rene  and  fresh  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  we  went 
through  our  dinner  without  a  break  down,  for  little 
Midge  was  a  well-trained  waiter  and  did  heroically. 

Only,  when  I  came  to  pour  the  coffee  after  dinner,  I 
was  astonished  at  its  unusual  appearance.  Our  clear, 
limpid,  golden  coffee  had  always  been  one  of  our  strong 
points,  and  one  on  which  I  had  often  received  special 
compliments.  People  had  said,  "  How  do  you  contrive 
to  always  have  such  coffee  ?  "  and  I  had  accepted  with  a 
graceful  humility,  declaring,  as  is  proper  in  such  cases, 
that  I  was  not  aware  of  any  particular  merit  in  it,  etc. 

The  fact  is,  I  never  had  thought  about  coffee  at  all. 
I  had  seen,  as  I  supposed,  how  Mary  made  it,  and  never 
doubted  that  mine  would  be  like  hers ;  so  that  when  a 
black,  thick,  cloudy  liquid  poured  out  of  my  coffee  pot, 
I  was,  I  confess,  appalled. 

Harry,  like  a  good  fellow,  took  no  notice,  and  covered 
my  defect  by  beginning  an  animated  conversation  on  the 
merits  of  the  last  book  our  gentleman  had  published. 
The  good  man  forgot  all  about  his  coffee  in  his  delight 
at  the  obliging  things  Harry  was  saying,  and  took  off  the 
muddy  draught  with  a  cheerful  zeal,  as  if  it  was  so  much 
nectar. 

But,  on  our  way  to  the  parlor,  Harry  contrived  to 
whisper, 

"  What  has  got  into  Mary  about  her  coffee  to-day?" 

"  O  Harry,"  I  replied,  "  Mary's  gone.  I  had  to  get 
the  dinner  all  alone." 


A   MISTRESS    WITHOUT  A   MAID.  305 

"You  did!  You  wonderful  little  puss!"  said  the 
good  boy.  "  Never  mind  the  coffee !  Better  luck  next 
time." 

And,  after  we  were  alone  that  night,  Harry  praised 
and  admired  me,  and  I  got  out  the  cookery  book  to  see 
how  I  ought  to  have  made  my  coffee. 

The  directions,  however,  were  not  near  as  much  to 
the  point  as  the  light  I  got  from  Dinah,  who  came  across 
on  a  gossiping  expedition  to  our  kitchen  that  evening, 
and  to  whom  I  propounded  the  inquiry,  "Why  wasn't 
my  coffee  clear  and  nice  like  Mary's  ?" 

"Land  sakes,  Mis'  Henderson,  ye  didn't  put  in  no 
fish-skin,  nor  nothing  to  clar  it." 

"No.     I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Some  uses  fish-skin,  and  some  takes  an  egg,"  con 
tinued  Dinah.  "When  eggs  is  cheap,  I  takes  an  egg. 
Don't  nobody  have  no  clarer  coffee  'n  mine." 

I  made  Dinah  illustrate  her  theme  by  one  practical 
experiment,  after  the  manner  of  chemical  lecturers,  and 
then  I  was  mistress  of  the  situation.  Coffee  was  a  van 
quished  realm,  a  subjugated  province,  the  power  whereof 
was  vested  henceforth,  not  in  Mary,  but  myself. 

Since  then,  we  have  been  anxiously  looking  for  Mary 
every  day ;  for  Thursday  is  coming  round,  and  how  are 
we  to  have  "our  evening"  without  her  ?  Alice  and  Angie 
are  both  staying  with  me  now  to  help  me,  and  on  the 
whole  we  have  pretty  good  times,  though  there  isn't  any 
surplus  of  practical  knowledge  among  us.  We  have  all 
rather  plumed  ourselves  on  being  sensible  domestic  girls. 
We  can  all  make  lovely  sponge  cake,  and  Angie  excels 
in  chocolate  caramels,  and  Alice  had  a  great  success  in 
currant  jelly.  But  the  thousand  little  practical  points 
that  meet  one  in  getting  the  simplest  meal,  nobody 
knows  till  he  tries.  For  instance,  we  fried  our  sausages 
in  butter,  the  first  morning,  to  the  great  scandal  of  little 


306  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Midge,  who  instructed  us  gravely  that  they  were  made 
to  fry  themselves. 

Since  "  our  boys "  have  found  out  that  we  are  sole 
mistresses  of  the  kitchen,  they  often  drop  in  to  lighten 
our  labors  and  to  profess  their  own  culinary  accomplish 
ments.  Jim  Fellows  declares  that  nobody  can  equal 
him  in  coffee,  and  that  he  can  cook  a  steak  with  tomato 
sauce  in  a  manner  unequaled;  and  Bolton  professes  a 
perculiar  skill  in  an  omelette;  so  we  agreed  yester 
day  to  let  them  try  their  hand,  and  we  had  a  great 
frolic  over  the  getting  up  of  a  composition  dinner. 
Each  of  us  took  a  particular  thing  to  be  responsible 
for ;  and  so  we  got  up  a  pic-nic  performance,  which  we 
ate  with  great  jollity.  Dr.  Campbell  came  in  with  a  glass 
coffee-making  machine  by  which  coffee  was  to  be  made 
on  table  for  the  amusement  of  the  guests  as  well  as  for  the 
gratification  of  appetite ;  and  he  undertook,  for  his  part, 
to  engineer  it.  Altogether  we  had  a  capital  time,  and 
more  fun  than  if  we  had  got  the  dinner  under  the  usual 
auspices ;  and,  to  crown  all,  I  got  a  letter  from  Mary  that 
she  is  coming  back  to-morrow, — so  all's  well  that  ends 
well.  Meanwhile,  dear  mother,  though  I  have  burned 
my  hands  and  greased  the  front  breadth  of  my  new  win 
ter  dress,  yet  I  have  gained  something  quite  worth 
having  by  the  experience  of  the  last  few  days. 

I  think  I  shall  have  more  patience  with  the  faults  and 
short-comings  of  the  servants  after  this;  and  if  the  cus 
tard  is  a  failure,  or  the  meat  is  burned,  or  the  coffee 
doesn't  come  perfectly  clear,  I  shall  remember  that  she  is 
a  sister  woman  of  like  passions  with  myself,  and  perhaps 
trying  to  do  her  very  best  when  she  fails,  just  as  I  was 
when  I  failed.  I  am  quite  sure  that  I  shall  be  a  better 
mistress  for  having  served  an  apprenticeship  as  a  maid. 

So  good  by,  dear  mother. 

Your  loving  EVA. 


CHAPTER  XXXI IT. 

A    FOUR-FOOTED    PRODIGAL. 

THERE  was  dismay  and  confusion  in  the  old  Van- 
derheyden  house,  this  evening.  Mrs.  Betsey  sat 
abstracted  at  her  tea,  as  one  refusing  to  be  comforted. 
The  chair  on  which  Jack  generally  sat  alert  and  cheerful 
at  meal  times  was  a  vacant  chair,  and  poor  soft-hearted 
Mrs.  Betsey's  eyes  filled  with  tears  every  time  she  looked 
that  way.  Jack  had  run  away  that  forenoon  and  had  not 
been  seen  about  house  or  premises  since. 

"Come  now,  Betsey,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  "eat  your 
toast;  you  really  are  silly." 

"I  can't  help  it,  Dorcas;  it's  getting  dark  and  he 
doesn't  come.  Jack  never  did  stay  out  so  long  before ; 
something  must  have  happened  to  him." 

"Oh,  you  go  'way,  Miss  Betsey!"  broke  in  Dinah, 
with  the  irreverent  freedom  which  she  generally  asserted 
to  herself  in  the  family  counsels,  "never  you  fear  but 
what  Jack  '11  be  back  soon  enough — too  soon  for  most 
folks ;  he  knows  which  side  his  bread  's  buttered,  dat  dog 
does.  Bad  penny  allers  sure  to  come  home  'fore  you 
want  it." 

"And  there's  no  sort  of  reason,  Betsey,  why  you 
shouldn't  exercise  self-control  and  eat  your  supper,"  pur 
sued  Miss  Dorcas,  authoritatively.  "A  well-regulated 
mind  " — 

"  You  needn't  talk  to  me  about  a  well-regulated  mind, 
Dorcas,"  responded  Mrs.  Betsey,  in  an  exacerbated  tone. 
"  I  haven't  got  a  well-regulated  mind  and  never  had,  and 
never  shall  have;  and  reading  Mrs.  Chapone  and  Dr. 


308  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Watts  on  the  Mind,  and  all  the  rest  of  them,  never  did 
me  any  good.  I'm  one  of  that  sort  that  when  I'm  anx 
ious  I  am  anxious ;  so  it  don't  do  any  good  to  talk  that 
way  to  me." 

"  Well,  you  know,  Betsey,  if  you'll  only  be  reasonable, 
that  Jack  always  has  come  home." 

"And  good  reason,"  chuckled  Dinah.  "Don't  he 
know  when  he's  well  off?  you  jest  bet  he  does.  I  know 
jest  where  he  is ;  he's  jest  off  a  gallivantin'  and  a  pran- 
cin*  and  a  dancin'  now  'long  o'  dem  low  dogs  in  Flower 
Street,  and  he'll  come  back  bimeby  smellin'  'nuff  to 
knock  ye  down,  and  I  shall  jest  hev  the  washin'  on  him, 
that's  what  I  shall ;  and  if  I  don't  give  him  sech  a  soap- 
in*  and  scrubbin'  as  he  never  hed,  I  tell  you  !  So  you  jest 
eat  your  toast,  Mis'  Betsey,  and  take  no  thought  for  de 
morrer,  Scriptur*  says." 

This  cheerful  picture,  presented  in  Dinah's  overpow- 
eringly  self-confident  way,  had  some  effect  on  Mrs.  Bet 
sey,  who  wiped  her  eyes  and  finished  her  slice  of  toast 
without  further  remonstrance. 

"  Dinah,  if  you're  sure  he's  down  on  Flower  Street, 
you  might  go  and  look  him  up,  after  tea,"  she  added, 
after  long  reflection. 

"  Oh,  well,  when  my  dishes  is  done  up,  ef  Jack  ain't 
come  round,  why,  I'll  take  a  look  arter  him,"  quoth 
Dinah.  "  I  don't  hanker  arter  no  dog  in  a  gineral  way, 
but  since  you've  got  sot  on  Jack,  why,  have  him  you 
must.  Dogs  is  nothin'  but  a  plague;  for  my  part  I's  glad 
there  won't  be  no  dogs  in  heaven." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  that  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Betsey, 
with  spirit. 

"Know?"  said  Dinah.  "Hain't  I  heard  my  Bible 
read  in  Rev'lations  all  'bout  de  golden  city,  and  how  it 
says,  *  Widout  are  dogs '  ?  Don't  no  dogs  walk  de  golden 
streets,  now  I  tell  you ;  got  Bible  on  dat  ar.  Jack  '11  hev 


A   FOUR-FOOTED  PRODIGAL.  309 

to  take  his  time  in  dis  world,  for  he  won't  get  in  dere  a 
promenadin'." 

"Well  then,  Dinah,  we  must  make  the  most  we  can 
of  him  here,"  pursued  Miss  Dorcas,  "and  so,  after  you've 
done  your  dishes,  I  wish  you'd  go  out  and  look  him  up. 
You  know  you  can  find  him,  if  you  only  set  your  mind 
to  it." 

44  To  think  of  it !  "  said  Mrs.  Betsey.  "  I  had  just 
taken  such  pains  with  him ;  washed  him  up  in  nice  warm 
water,  with  scented  soap,  and  combed  him  with  a  fine- 
tooth  comb  till  there  was  n't  a  flea  on  him,  and  tied  a 
handsome  pink  ribbon  round  his  neck,  because  I  was 
going  to  take  him  over  to  Mrs.  Henderson's  to  call,  this 
afternoon  ;  and  just  as  I  got  him  all  perfectly  arranged 
out  he  slipped,  and  that's  the  last  of  him." 

"I'll  warrant!"  said  Dinah,  "and  won't  he  trail  dat 
ar  pink  ribbon  through  all  sorts  o'  nastiness,  and  come 
home  smellin'  wus  'n  a  sink-drain !  Dogs  hes  total  de 
pravity,  and  hes  it  hard ;  it's  no  use  tryin'  to  make  Chris 
tians  on  'em.  But  I'll  look  Jack  up,  never  you  fear. 
I'll  bring  him  home,  see  if  I  don't,"  and  Dinah  went  out 
with  an  air  of  decision  that  carried  courage  to  Mrs.  Bet 
sey's  heart.  \ 

"Come,  now,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  "we'll  wash  up  the 
china,  and  then,  you  know,  it's  Thursday — we'll  dress 
and  go  across  to  Mrs.  Henderson's  and  have  a  pleasant 
evening ;  and  by  the  time  we  come  back  Jack  '11  be  here, 
I  dare  say.  Never  mind  looking  out  the  window  after 
him  now,"  she  added,  seeing  Mrs.  Betsey  peering  wistfully 
through  the  blinds  up  and  down  the  street. 

"People  talk  as  if  it  were  silly  to  love  dogs,"  said 
Mrs.  Betsey,  in  an  injured  tone.  "I  don't  see  why  it  is. 
It  may  be  better  to  have  a  baby,  but  if  you  haven't  got 
a  baby,  and  have  got  a  dog,  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't 
love  that;  and  Jack  was  real  loving,  too,"  she  added, 


310  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  and  such  company  for  me ;  he  seemed  like  a  reasonable 
creature;  and  you  were  fond  of  him,  Dorcas,  you  just 
know  you  were." 

"  Of  course,  I'm  very  fond  of  Jack,"  said  Miss  Dor 
cas,  cheerfully;  "  but  I'm  not  going  to  make  myself  mis 
erable  about  him.  I  know,  of  course,  he'll  come  back 
in  good  time.  But  here's  Dinah,  bringing  the  water. 
Come  now,  let's  do  up  the  china — here's  your  towel — and 
then  you  shall  put  on  that  new  cap  Mrs.  Henderson 
arranged  for  you,  and  go  over  and  let  her  see  you  in  it. 
It  was  so  very  thoughtful  in  dear  Mrs.  Henderson  to  do 
that  cap  for  you ;  and  she  said  the  color  was  very  becom 
ing." 

"She  is  a  dear,  sweet  little  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Bet 
sey  ;  "  and  that  sister  of  hers,  Miss  Angelique,  looks  like 
her,  and  is  so  lovely.  She  talked  with  me  ever  so  long, 
the  last  time  we  were  there.  She  isn't  like  some  young 
girls,  she  can  see  something  to  like  in  an  old  woman." 

Poor  good  Miss  Dorcas  had,  for  the  most  part,  a  very 
exalted  superiority  to  any  toilet  vanities ;  but,  if  the  truth 
were  to  be  told,  she  was  moved  to  an  unusual  degree  of 
indulgence  towards  Mrs.  Betsey  by  the  suppressed  fear 
that  something  grave  might  have  befallen  the  pet  of  the 
household.  In  a  sort  of  vague  picture,  there  rose  up  be 
fore  her  the  old  days,  when  it  was  not  a  dog,  but  a  little 
child,  that  filled  the  place  in  that  desolate  heart.  When 
there  had  been  a  patter  of  little  steps  in  those  stiff  and 
silent  rooms ;  and  questions  of  little  shoes,  and  little 
sashes,  and  little  embroidered  robes,  had  filled  the  moth 
er's  heart.  And  then  there  had  been  in  the  house  the 
racket  and  willful  noise  of  a  school-boy,  with  his  tops, 
and  his  skates,  and  his  books  and  tasks ;  and  then  there 
had  been  the  gay  young  man,  with  his  smoking-caps  and 
cigars,  and  his  rattling  talk,  and  his  coaxing,  teasing 
ways ;  and  then,  alas !  had  come  bad  courses,  and  irreg- 


A   FOUR-FOOTED   PRODIGAL.  3H 

ular  hours,  and  watchings,  and  fears  for  one  who  refused 
to  be  guided ;  night-watchings  for  one  who  came  late, 
and  brought  sorrow  in  his  coming;  till,  finally,  came  a 
darker  hour,  and  a  coffin,  and  a  funeral,  and  a  grave, 
and  long  weariness  and  broken-heartedness, — a  sickness 
of  the  heart  that  had  lasted  for  years,  that  had  blanched 
the  hair,  and  unstrung  the  nerves,  and  made  the  once 
pretty,  sprightly  little  woman  a  wreck.  All  these  pict 
ures  rose  up  silently  before  Miss  Dorcas's  inner  eye  as 
she  busied  herself  in  wiping  the  china,  and  there  was  a 
touch  of  pathos  about  her  unaccustomed  efforts  to  awa 
ken  her  sister's  slumbering  sensibility  to  finery,  and  to 
produce  a  diversion  in  favor  of  the  new  cap. 

The  love  of  a  pet  animal  is  something  for  which  peo 
ple  somehow  seem  called  upon  to  apologize  to  our  own 
species,  as  if  it  were  a  sort  of  mesalliance  of  the  affections 
to  bestow  them  on  anything  below  the  human  race ;  and 
yet  the  Book  of  books,  which  reflects  most  faithfully  and 
tenderly  the  nature  of  man,  represents  the  very  height 
of  cruelty  by  the  killing  of  a  poor  man's  pet  lamb.  It 
says  the  rich  man  had  flocks  and  herds,  but  the  poor  man 
had  nothing  save  one  little  ewe  lamb,  which  he  had 
brought  and  nourished  up,  which  grew  up  together  with 
him  and  his  children,  which  ate  of  his  bread,  and  drank 
of  his  cup,  and  lay  in  his  bosom,  and  was  to  him  as  a 
daughter. 

And  how  often  on  the  unintelligent  head  of  some 
poor  loving  animal  are  shed  the  tears  of  some  heart-sor 
row;  and  their  dumb  company,  their  unspoken  affection, 
solace  some  broken  heart  which*  hides  itself  to  die  alone. 

Dogs  are  the  special  comforters  of  neglected  and  for 
gotten  people;  and  to  hurt  a  poor  man's  dog,  has  always 
seemed  to  us  a  crime  akin  to  sacrilege. 

We  are  not  at  all  sure,  either,  of  the  boasted  superi 
ority  of  our  human  species.  A  dog  who  lives  up  to  the 


312  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

laws  of  his  being  is,  in  our  view,  a  nobler  creature  than 
a  man  who  sinks  below  his :  he  is  certainly  a  much  more 
profitable  member  of  the  community.  We  suggest, 
moreover,  that  a  much  more  judicious  use  could  be 
made  of  the  city  dog-pound  in  thinning  out  human  brutes 
than  in  smothering  poor,  honest  curs  who  always  lived 
up  to  their  light  and  did  just  as  well  as  they  knew  how. 
To  say  the  honest  truth  about  poor  Jack,  his  faults 
were  only  those  incident  to  his  having  been  originally 
created  a  dog — a  circumstance  for  which  he  was  in  no 
way  responsible.  He  was  as  warm-hearted,  loving,  de 
monstrative  a  creature  as  ever  wagged  a  tail,  and  he  was 
anxious  to  please  his  mistress  to  the  best  of  his  light  and 
knowledge.  But  he  had  that  rooted  and  insuperable  ob 
jection  to  soap  and  water,  and  that  preference  for  dirt  and 
liberty,  which  is  witnessed  also  in  young  animals  of  the 
human  species,  and  Mrs.  Betsey's  exquisite  neatness  was  a 
sore  cross  and  burden  to  him.  Then  his  destiny  having 
made  him  of  the  nature  of  the  flesh-eaters,  as  the  canine 
race  are  generally,  and  Miss  Dorcas  having  some  strict 
dietetic  theories  intended  to  keep  him  in  genteel  figure, 
Jack's  allowance  of  meat  and  bones  was  far  below  his 
cravings :  and  so  he  was  led  to  explore  neighboring 
alleys,  and  to  investigate  swill-pails ;  to  bring  home  and 
bury  bones  in  the  Vanderheyden  garden-plot,  which 
formed  thus  a  sort  of  refrigerator  for  the  preservation  of 
his  marketing.  Then  Jack  had  his  own  proclivities  for 
society.  An  old  lady  in  a  cap,  however  caressing  and 
affectionate,  could  not  supply  all  the  social  wants  of  a 
dog's  nature;  and  even  the  mixed  and  low  company  of 
Flower  Street  was  a  great  relief  to  him  from  the  very 
slelect  associations  and  good  behavior  to  which  he  was  re 
stricted  the  greater  part  of  his  time.  In  short,  Jack,  like 
the  rest  of  us,  had  his  times  when  he  was  fairly  tired  out 
of  being  good,  and  acting  the  part  of  a  cultivated  draw- 


A   FOUR-FOOTED  PRODIGAL.  313 

ing-room  dog ;  and  then  he  reverted  with  a  bound  to  his 
freer  doggish  associates.  Such  an  impulse  is  not  confined 
to  four-footed  children  of  nature.  Rachel,  when  mistress 
of  all  the  brilliancy  and  luxury  of  the  choicest  salon  in 
Paris,  had  fits  of  longing  to  return  to  the  wild  freedom 
of  a  street  girl's  life,  and  said  that  she  felt  within  herself  a 
"  besom  de  s'encanailler."  This  expresses  just  what  Jack 
felt  when  he  went  trailing  his  rose-colored  bows  into  the 
society  of  Flower  Street,  little  thinking,  as  he  lolled  his 
long  pink  ribbon  of  a  tongue  jauntily  out  of  his  mouth, 
and  enjoyed  the  sensation  he  excited  among  the  dogs  of 
the  vicinity,  of  the  tears  and  anxieties  his  frolic  was  cre 
ating  at  home.  But,  in  due  time,  the  china  was  washed, 
and  Mrs.  Betsey  entered  with  some  interest  into  prepa 
rations  for  the  evening. 

Miss  Dorcas  and  Mrs.  Betsey  were  the  earliest  at  the 
Henderson  fireside,  and  they  found  Alice,  Angelique  and 
Eva  busy  arranging  the  tea-table  in  the  corner. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  think,  Miss  Dorcas,  Mary  nasn't  come 
back  yet,  and  we  girls  are  managing  all  alone,"  said  An 
gelique;  "you  can't  think  what  fun  it  is!" 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  Mrs.  Henderson?"  said 
Miss  Dorcas.  "  I  would  have  sent  Dinah  over  to  make 
your  coffee." 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  Miss  Dorcas,  Dinah  gave  me  private 
lessons  day  before  yesterday,"  said  Eva,  "and  from 
henceforth  I  am  personally  adequate  to  any  amount  of 
coffee,  I  grow  so  self-confident.  But  I  tried  my  hand  in 
making  those  little  biscuit  Mary,  gets  up,  and  they  were 
a  failure.  Mary  makes  them  with  sour  milk  and  soda, 
and  I  tried  to  do  mine  just  like  hers.  I  can't  tell  why, 
but  they  came  out  of  the  oven  a  brilliant  grass-green — 
quite  a -preternatural  color." 

"Showing  that  they  were  the  work  of  a  green  hand," 
said  Angelique. 


314  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"It  was  an  evident  reflection  on  me,"  said  Eva. 
"At  any  rate,  I  sent  to  the  bakery  for  my  biscuit 
to-night,  for  I  would  not  advertise  my  greenness  in 
public." 

"  But  we  are  going  to  introduce  a  novelty  this  even 
ing,"  said  Angelique;  "to  wit:  boiled  chestnuts;  any 
body  can  cook  chestnuts." 

"  Yes,"  said  Eva ;  "  Harry's  mother  has  just  sent  us  a 
lovely  bag  of  chestnuts,  and  we  are  going  to  present 
them  as  a  sensation.  I  think  it  will  start  all  sorts  of 
poetic  and  pastoral  reminiscences  of  lovely  fall  days, 
and  boys  and  girls  going  chestnutting  and  having  good 
times  ;  it  will  make  themes  for  talk." 

"  By  the  by,"  said  Angelique,  "  where 's  Jack,  Mrs. 
Benthusen  ?" 

"  Oh !  my  dear,  you  touch  a  sore  spot.  We  are  in 
distress  about  Jack.  He  ran  away  this  morning,  and  we 
haven't  seen  him  all  day." 

"How  terrible!"  said  Eva.  "This  is  a  neighbor 
hood  matter.  Jack  is  the  dog  of  the  regiment.  We 
must  all  put  our  wits  together  to  have  him  looked  up. 
Here  comes  Jim;  let's  tell  him,"  continued  she,  as  Jim 
Fellows  walked  up. 

"What's  up,  now?" 

"Why,  our  dog  is  missing,"  said  Eva.  "The  pride 
of  our  hearts,  the  ornament  of  our  neighborhood,  is 
gone." 

"Do  you  think  anybody  has  stolen  him?"  said  Alice. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey;  "Jack  is  a 
dog  of  a  very  pure  breed,  and  very  valuable.  A  boy 
might  get  quite  a  sum  for  him." 

"I'll  advertise  him  in  our  paper,"  said  Jim. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Fellows,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  doubt  he'll  get  back  to  you,  even  if  he  has 


A   FOUR-FOOTED  PRODIGAL.  315 

been  stolen,"  said  Harry.  "I  have  known  wonderful 
instances  of  the  contrivance,  and  ingenuity,  and  perse 
verance  of  these  creatures  in  getting  back  home." 

"Well,"  said  Jim,  "I  know  a  regiment  of  our  press 
boys  and  reporters,  who  go  all  up  and  down  the  high 
ways  and  byways,  alleys  and  lanes  of  New  York,  looking 
into  cracks  and  corners,  and  I'll  furnish  them  with  a 
description  of  Jack,  and  tell  them  /want  him;  and  I'll 
be  bound  we'll  have  him  forthcoming.  There's  some 
use  in  newspaper  boys,  now  and  then." 

And  Jim  sat  down  by  Mrs.  Betsey,  and  entered  into 
the  topic  of  Jack's  characteristics,  ways,  manners  and 
habits,  with  an  interest  which  went  to  the  deepest  heart 
of  the  good  little  old  lady,  and  excited  in  her  bosom  the 
brightest  hopes. 

The  evening  passed  off  pleasantly.  By  this  time,  the 
habitual  comers  felt  enough  at  home  to  have  the  sort  of 
easy  enjoyment  that  a  return  to  one's  own  fireside 
always  brings. 

Alice,  Jim,  Eva,  Angelique,  and  Mr.  St.  John  discussed 
the  forthcoming  Christmas-tree  for  the  Sunday-school, 
and  made  lists  of  purchases  to  be  made  of  things  to  be 
distributed  among  them. 

"  Let's  give  them  things  that  are  really  useful,"  said 
St.  John. 

"For  my  part,"  said  Eva,  "in  giving  to  such  poor 
children,  whose  mothers  have  no  time  to  entertain  them, 
and  no  money  to  buy  pretty  things,  I  feel  more  disposed 
to  get  bright,  attractive  playthings — dolls  with  fine,  fancy 
dresses,  and  so  on ;  it  gives  a  touch  of  poetry  to  the  poor 
child's  life." 

"Well,  I've  dressed  four  dolls,"  said  Angie;  "and  I 
offer  my  services  to  dress  a  dozen  more.  My  innate  love 
of  finery  is  turned  to  good  account  here." 

"  I  incline  more  to  useful  things,"  said  Alice. 


316  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

.  "  Well,"  said  Eva,  "  suppose  we  do  both,  give  each 
child  one  useful  thing  and  one  for  fancy?" 

"Well,"  said  Alice,  "the  shopping  for  all  this  list  of 
eighty  children  will  be  no  small  item.  Jim,  we  shall 
have  to  call  in  your  services." 

"  I'm  your  man,"  said  Jim.  "  I  know  stores  where 
the  fellows  would  run  their  feet  off  to  get  a  good  word 
from  us  of  the  press.  I  shall  turn  my  influence  in  to  the 
service  of  the  church." 

"Well,"  said  Alice,  "we  shall  take  you  with  us,  when 
we  go  on  our  shopping  tour. " 

"  I  know  a  German  firm  where  you  can  get  the  real 
German  candles,  and  glass  balls,  and  all  the  shiners  and 
tinklers  to  glorify  your  tree,  and  a  little  angel  to  stick  on 
the  top.  A  tip-top  notice  from  me  in  the  paper  will 
make  them  shell  out  for  us  like  thunder." 

Mr.  St.  John  opened  his  large,  thoughtful,  blue  eyes 
on  Jim  with  an  air  of  innocent  wonder.  He  knew  as 
little  of  children  and  their  ways  as  most  men,  and  was  as 
helpless  about  all  the  details  of  their  affairs  as  he  was 
desirous  of  a  good  result. 

"I  leave  it  all  in  your  hands,"  he  said,  meekly; 
"  only,  wherever  I  can  be  of  service,  command  me. " 

It  was  probably  from  pure  accident  that  Mr.  St.  John 
as  he  spoke  looked  at  Angie,  and  that  Angie  blushed  a 
little,  and  that  Jim  Fellows  twinkled  a  wicked  glance 
across  at  Alice.  Such  accidents  are  all  the  while  hap 
pening,  just  as  flowers  are  all  the  while  springing  up  by 
the  wayside.  Wherever  man  and  woman  walk  hand  in 
hand,  the  earth  is  sown  thick  with  them. 

It  was  a  later  hour  than  usual  when  Miss  Dorcas  and 
Mrs.  Betsey  came  back  to  their  home. 

"  Is  Jack  come  home?"  was  the  first  question. 

No,  Jack  had  not  come. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

GOING  TO  THE    BAD. 

IT  was  the  week  before  Christmas,  and  all  New  York 
was  stirring  and  rustling  with  a  note  of  preparation. 
Every  shop  and  store  was  being  garnished  and  furbished 
to  look  its  best.  Christmas-trees  for  sale  lay  at  the  doors 
of  groceries ;  wreaths  of  ground-pine,  and  sprigs  and 
branches  of  holly,  were  on  sale,  and  selling  briskly. 
Garlands  and  anchors  and  crosses  of  green  began  to 
adorn  the  windows  of  houses,  and  were  a  merchantable 
article  in  the  stores.  The  toy-shops  were  flaming  and 
flaunting  with  a  delirious  variety  of  attractions,  and 
mammas  and  papas  with  puzzled  faces  were  crowding 
and  jostling  each  other,  and  turning  anxiously  from  side 
to  side  in  the  suffocating  throng  that  crowded  to  the 
counters,  while  the  shopmen  were  too  flustered  to  an 
swer  questions,  and  so  busy  that  it  seemed  a  miracle 
when  anybody  got  any  attention.  The  country-folk 
were  pouring  into  New  York  to  do  Christmas  shopping, 
and  every  imaginable  kind  of  shop  hud  in  its  window 
some  label  or  advertisement  or  suggestion  of  something 
that  might  answer  for  a  Christmas  gift.  Even  the  grim, 
heavy  hardware  trade  blossomed  out  into  festal  sugges 
tions.  Tempting  rows  of  knives  and  scissors  glittered 
in  the  windows ;  little  chests  of  tools  for  little  masters, 
with  cards  and  labels  to  call  the  attention  of  papa  to  the 
usefulness  of  the  present.  The  confectioners'  windows 
were  a  glittering  mass  of  sugar  frostwork  of  every  fanciful 
device,  gay  boxes  of  bonbons,  marvelous  fabrications  of 


318  WE  AND   OUR   NEIGHBORS. 

chocolate,  and  sugar  rainbows  in  candy  of  every  possible 
device;  and  bewildered  crowds  of  well-dressed  purchas 
ers  came  and  saw  and  bought  faster  than  the  two  hands 
of  the  shopmen  could  tie  up  and  present  the  parcels. 
The  grocery  stores  hung  out  every  possible  suggestion 
of  festal  cheer.  Long  strings  of  turkeys  and  chickens, 
green  bunches  of  celery,  red  masses  of  cranberries, 
boxes  of  raisins  and  drums  of  figs,  artistically  arranged, 
and  garnished  with  Christmas  greens,  addressed  them 
selves  eloquently  to  the  appetite,  and  suggested  that  the 
season  of  festivity  was  at  hand. 

The  weather  was  stinging  cold — cold  enough  to  nip 
one's  toes  and  fingers,  as  one  pressed  round,  doing 
Christmas  shopping,  and  to  give  cheeks  and  nose  alike 
a  tinge  of  red.  But  nobody  seemed  to  mind  the  cold. 
"  Cold  as  Christmas  "  has  become  a  cheery  proverb ;  and 
for  prosperous,  well-living  people,  with  cellars  full  of 
coal,  with  bright  fires  and  roaring  furnaces  and  well- 
tended  ranges,  a  cold  Christmas  is  merely  one  of  the 
luxuries.  Cold  is  the  condiment  of  the  season ;  the 
stinging,  smarting  sensation  is  an  appetizing  reminder  of 
how  warm  and  prosperous  and  comfortable  are  all  within 
doors. 

But  did  any  one  ever  walk  the  streets  of  New  York, 
the  week  before  Christmas,  and  try  to  imagine  himself 
moving  in  all  this  crowd  of  gaiety,  outcast,  forsaken  and 
penniless  ?  How  dismal  a  thing  is  a  crowd  in  which  you 
look  in  vain  for  one  face  that  you  know !  how  depress 
ing  the  sense  that  all  this  hilarity  and  abundance  and 
plenty  is  not  for  you  !  Shakespeare  has  said,  "  How 
miserable  it  is  to  look  into  happiness  through  another 
man's  eyes — to  see  that  which  you  might  enjoy  and  may 
not,  to  move  in  a  world  of  gaiety  and  prosperity  where 
there  is  nothing  for  you  !" 

Such  were  Maggie's  thoughts,  the  day  she  went  out 


GOING    TO    THE  BAD.  319 

from  the  kindly  roof  that  had  sheltered  her,  and  cast 
herself  once  more  upon  the  world.  Poor  hot-hearted, 
imprudent  child,  why  did  she  run  from  her  only  friends  ? 
Well,  to  answer  that  question,  we  must  think  a  little.  It 
is  a  sad  truth,  that  when  people  have  taken  a  certain 
number  of  steps  in  wrong-doing,  even  the  good  that  is  in 
them  seems  to  turn  against  them  and  become  their 
enemy.  It  was  in  fact  a  residuum  of  honor  and  gener 
osity,  united  with  wounded  pride,  that  drove  Maggie 
into  the.  street,  that  morning.  She  had  overheard  the 
conversation  between  Aunt  Maria  and  Eva ;  and  certain 
parts  of  it  brought  back  to  her  mind  the  severe  re 
proaches  which  had  fallen  upon  her  from  her  Uncle 
Mike.  He  had  told  her  she  was  a  disgrace  to  any  honest 
house,  and  she  had  overheard  Aunt  Maria  telling  the 
same  thing  to  Eva, — that  the  having  and  keeping  such 
as  she  in  her  home  was  a  disreputable,  disgraceful  thing, 
and  one  that  would  expose  her  to  very  unpleasant  com 
ments  and  observations.  Then  she  listened  to  Aunt 
Maria's  argument,  to  show  Eva  that  she  had  better  send 
her  mother  away  and  take  another  woman  in  her  place, 
because  she  was  encumbered  with  such  a  daughter. 

"Well,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I'll  go  then.  I'm  in 
everybody's  way,  and  I  get  everybody  into  trouble  that's 
good  to  me.  I'll  just  take  myself  off.  So  there!"  and 
Maggie  put  on  her  things  and  plunged  into  the  street 
and  walked  very  fast  in  a  tumult  of  feeling. 

She  had  a  few  dollars  in  her  purse  that  her  mother 
had  given  her  to  buy  winter  clothing;  enough,  she 
thought  vaguely,  to  get  her  a  few  days'  lodging  some 
where,  and  she  would  find  something  honest  to  do. 

Maggie  knew  there  were  places  where  she  would  be 
welcomed  with  an  evil  welcome,  where  she  would  have 
praise  and  flattery  instead  of  chiding  and  rebuke  ;  but 
she  did  not  intend  to  go  to  them  just  yet. 


320  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

The  gentle  words  that  Eva  had  spoken  to  her,  the 
hope  and  confidence  she  had  expressed  that  she  might 
yet  retrieve  her  future,  were  a  secret  cord  that  held  her 
back  from  going  to  the  utterly  bad. 

The  idea  that  somebody  thought  well  of  her,  that 
somebody  believed  in  her,  and  that  a  lady  pretty,  grace 
ful,  and  admired  in  the  world,  seemed  really  to  care  to 
have  her  do  well,  was  a  redeeming  thought.  She  would 
go  and  get  some  place,  and  do  something  for  herself, 
and  when  she  had  shown  that  she  could  do  something, 
she  would  once  more  make  herself  known  to  her  friends. 
Maggie  had  a  good  gift  at  millinery,  and,  at  certain  odd 
times,  had  worked  in  a  little  shop  on  Sixteenth  Street, 
where  the  mistress  had  thought  well  of  her,  and  made 
her  advantageous  offers.  Thither  she  went  first,  and 
asked  to  see  Miss  Pinhurst.  The  moment,  however, 
that  she  found  herself  in  that  lady's  presence,  she  was 
sorry  she  had  come.  Evidently,  her  story  had  preceded 
her.  Miss  Pinhurst  had  heard  all  the  particulars  of  her 
ill  conduct,  and  was  ready  to  the  best  of  her  ability  to 
act  the  part  of  the  flaming  sword  that  turned  every  way 
to  keep  the  fallen  Eve  out  of  paradise. 

"I  am  astonished,  Maggie,  that  you  should  even 
think  of  such  a  thing  as  getting  a  place  here,  after  all's 
come  and  gone  that  you  know  of;  I  am  astonished  that 
you  could  for  one  moment  think  of  it.  None  but  young 
ladies  of  good  character  can  be  received  into  our  work 
rooms.  If  I  should  let  such  as  you  come  in,  my  respect 
able  girls  would  feel  insulted.  I  don't  know  but  they 
would  leave  in  a  body.  I  think  /  should  leave,  under 
the  same  circumstances.  No,  I  wish  you  well,  Maggie, 
and  hope  that  you  may  be  brought  to  repentance ;  but, 
as  to  the  shop,  it  isn't  to  be  thought  of." 

Now,  Miss  Pinhurst  was  not  a  hard-hearted  woman ; 
not,  in  any  sense,  a  cruel  woman ;  she  was  only  on  that 


GOING   TO    THE  BAD.  321 

picket  duty  by  which  the  respectable  and  well-behaved 
part  of  society  keeps  off  the  ill-behaving.  Society  has 
its  instincts  of  self-protection  and  self-preservation,  and 
seems  to  order  the  separation  of  the  sheep  and  the  goats, 
even  before  the  time  of  final  judgment.  For,  as  a  gen 
eral  thing,  it  would  not  be  safe  and  proper  to  admit 
fallen  women  back  into  the  ranks  of  those  unfallen, 
without  some  certificate  of  purgation.  Somebody  must 
be  responsible  for  them,  that  they  will  not  return  again 
to  bad  ways,  and  draw  with  them  the  innocent  and  in 
experienced.  Miss  Pinhurst  was  right  in  requiring  an 
unblemished  record  of  moral  character  among  her  shop 
girls.  It  was  her  mission  to  run  a  shop  and  run  it  well ; 
it  was  not  her  call  to  conduct  a  Magdalen  Asylum : 
hence,  though  we  pity  poor  Maggie,  coming  out  into  the 
cold  with  the  bitter  tears  of  rejection  freezing  her  cheek, 
we  can  hardly  blame  Miss  Pinhurst.  She  had  on  her 
hands  already  all  that  she  could  manage. 

Besides,  how  could  she  know  that  Maggie  was  really 
repentant  ?  Such  creatures  were  so  artful ;  and,  for 
aught  she  knew,  she  might  be  coming  for  nothing  else 
than  to  lure  away  some  of  her  girls,  and  get  them  into 
mischief.  She  spoke  the  honest  truth,  when  she  said  she 
wished  well  to  Maggie.  She  did  wish  her  well.  She 
would  have  been  sincerely  glad  to  know  that  she  had 
gotten  into  better  ways,  but  she  did  not  feel  that  it  was 
her  business  to  undertake  her  case.  She  had  neither 
time  nor  skill  for  the  delicate  and  difficult  business  of 
reformation.  Her  helpers  must  come  to  her  ready-made, 
in  good  order,  and  able  to  keep  step  and  time  :  she 
could  not  be  expected  to  make  them  over. 

"How  hard  they  all  make  it  to  do  right!"  thdught 
Maggie.  But  she  was  too  proud  to  plead  or  entreat. 
"  They  all  act  as  if  I  had  the  plague,  and  should  give  it 
to  them;  and  yet  I  don't  want  to  be  bad.  I'd  a  great 


322  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

deal  rather  be  good  if  they'd  let  me,  but  I  don't  see  any 
way.  Nobody  will  have  me,  or  let  me  stay,"  and  Maggie 
felt  a  sobbing  pity  for  herself.  Why  should  she  be 
treated  as  if  she  were  the  very  off-scouring  of  the  earth, 
when  the  man  who  had  led  her  into  all  this  sin  and  sor 
row  was  moving  in  the  best  society,  caressed,  admired, 
flattered,  married  to  a  good,  pious,  lovely  woman,  and 
carrying  all  the  honors  of  life  ? 

Why  was  it  such  a  sin  for  her,  and  no  sin  for  him  ? 
Why  could  he  repent  and  be  forgiven,  and  why  must 
she  never  be  forgiven?  There  was  n't  any  justice  in  it, 
Maggie  hotly  said  to  herself — and  there  wasn't;  and 
then,  as  she  walked  those  cold  streets,  pictures  without 
words  were  rising  in  her  mind,  of  days  when  everybody 
flattered  and  praised  her,  and  he  most  of  all.  There  is 
no  possession  which  brings  such  gratifying  homage  as 
personal  beauty ;  for  it  is  homage  more  exclusively  be 
longing  to  the  individual  self  than  any  other.  The 
tribute  rendered  to  wealth,  or  talent,  or  genius,  is  far  less 
personal.  A  child  or  woman  gifted  with  beauty  has  a 
constant  talisman  that  turns  all  things  to  gold — though, 
alas  !  the  gold  too  often  turns  out  like  fairy  gifts ;  it  is 
gold  only  in  seeming,  and  becomes  dirt  and  slate-stone 
on  their  hands. 

Beauty  is  a  dazzling  and  dizzying  gift.  It  dazzles 
first  its  possessor  and  inclines  him  to  foolish  action;  and 
it  dazzles  outsiders,  and  makes  them  say  and  do  foolish 
things. 

From  the  time  that  Maggie  was  a  little  chit,  running 
in  the  street,  people  had  stopped  her,  to  admire  her  hair 
and  eyes,  and  talk  all  kinds  of  nonsense  to  her,  for  the 
purpose  of  making  her  sparkle  and  flush  and  dimple, 
just  as  one  plays  with  a  stick  in  the  sparkling  of  a 
brook.  Her  father,  an  idle,  willful,  careless  creature, 
made  a  show  plaything  of  her,  and  spent  his  earnings  for 


GOING    TO    THE  BAD.  323 

her  gratification  and  adornment.  The  mother  was  only 
too  proud  and  fond ;  and  it  was  no  wonder  that  when 
Maggie  grew  up  to  girlhood  her  head  was  a  giddy  one, 
that  she  was  self-willed,  self-confident,  obstinate.  Mag 
gie  loved  ease  and  luxury.  Who  doesn't?  If  she  had 
been  born  on  Fifth  Avenue,  of  one  of  the  magnates  of 
New  York,  it  would  have  been  all  right,  of  course,  for 
her  to  love  ribbons  and  laces  and  flowers  and  fine 
clothes,  to  be  imperious  and  self-willed,  and  to  set  her 
pretty  foot  on  the  neck  of  the  world.  Many  a  young 
American  princess,  gifted  with  youth  and  beauty  and  with 
an  indulgent  papa  and  mamma,  is  no  wiser  than  Maggie 
was ;  but  nobody  thinks  the  worse  of  her.  People  laugh 
at  her  little  saucy  airs  and  graces,  and  predict  that  she 
will  come  all  right  by  and  by.  But  then,  for  her,  beauty 
means  an  advantageous  marriage,  a  home  of  luxury  and 
a  continuance  through  life  of  the  petting  and  indulgence 
which  every  one  loves,  whether  wisely  or  not. 

But  Maggie  was  the  daughter  of  a  poor  working-wo 
man — an  Irishwoman  at  that — and  what  marriage  leading 
to  wealth  and  luxury  was  in  store  for  her  ? 

To  tell  the  truth,  at  seventeen,  when  her  father  died 
and  her  mother  was  left  penniless,  Maggie  was  as  unfit 
to  encounter  the  world  as  you,  Miss  Mary,  or  you,  Miss 
Alice,  and  she  was  a  girl  of  precisely  the  same  flesh  and 
blood  as  yourself.  Maggie  cordially  hated  everything 
hard,  unpleasant  or  disagreeable,  just  as  you  do.  She 
was  as  unused  to  crosses  and  self-denials  as  you  are. 
She  longed  for  fine  things  and  pretty  things,  for  fine 
sight-seeing  and  lively  times,  just  as  you  do,  and  felt  just 
as  you  do  that  it  was  hard  fate  to  be  deprived  of  them. 
But,  when  worse  came  to  worst,  she  went  to  work  with 
Mrs.  Maria  Wouvermans.  Maggie  was  parlor-girl  and 
waitress,  and  a  good  one  too.  She  was  ingenious,  neat- 
handed,  quick  and  bright ;  and  her  beauty  drew  favorable 


324  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

attention.  But  Mrs.  Wouvermans  never  commended, 
but  only  found  fault.  If  Maggie  carefully  dusted  every 
one  of  the  five  hundred  knick-knacks  of  the  drawing- 
room  five  hundred  times,  there  was  nothing  said ;  but  if, 
on  the  five  hundred  and  first  time,  a  moulding  or  a  crev 
ice  was  found  with  dust  in  it,  Mrs.  Wouvermans  would 
summon  Maggie  to  her  presence  with  the  air  of  a  judge, 
point  out  the  criminal  fact,  and  inveigh,  in  terms  of  gen 
eral  severity,  against  her  carelessness,  as  if  carelessness 
were  the  rule  rather  than  the  exception. 

Mrs.  Wouvermans  took  special  umbrage  at  Maggie's 
dress — her  hat,  her  feathers,  her  flowers — not  because 
they  were  ugly,  but  because  they  were  pretty,  a  great 
deal  too  pretty  and  dressy  for  her  station.  Mrs.  Wou- 
vermans's  ideal  of  a  maid  was  a  trim  creature,  content 
with  two  gowns  of  coarse  stuff  and  a  bonnet  devoid  of 
adornment;  a  creature  who,  having  eyes,  saw  not  any 
thing  in  the  way  of  ornament  or  luxury ;  whose  whole 
soul  was  absorbed  in  work,  for  work's  sake ;  content  with 
mean  lodgings,  mean  furniture,  poor  food,  and  scanty 
clothing;  and  devoting  her  whole  powers  of  body  and 
soul  to  securing  to  others  elegancies,  comforts  and  luxu 
ries  to  which  she  never  aspired.  This  self-denied  sister 
of  charity,  who  stood  as  the  ideal  servant,  Mrs.  Wouver- 
mans's  maid  did  not  in  the  least  resemble.  Quite  an 
other  thing  was  the  gay,  dressy  young  lady  who,  on  Sun 
day  mornings,  stepped  forth  from  the  back  gate  of  her 
house  with  so  much  the  air  of  a  Murray  Hill  demoiselle 
that  people  sometimes  said  to  Mrs.  Wouvermans,  "  Who 
is  that  pretty  young  lady  that  you  have  staying  with 
you  ?" — a  question  that  never  failed  to  arouse  a  smoth 
ered  sense  of  indignation  in  that  lady's  mind,  and  added 
bitterness  to  her  reproofs  and  sarcasms,  when  she  found 
a  picture-frame  undusted,  or  pounced  opportunely  on  a 
cobweb  in  some  neglected  corner. 


GOING   TO    THE  BAD.  325 

Maggie  felt  certain  that  Mrs.  Wouvermans  was  on  the 
watch  to  find  fault  with  her — that  she  wanted  to  con 
demn  her,  for  she  had  gone  to  service  with  the  best  of 
resolutions.  Her  mother  was  poor  and  she  meant  to 
help  her ;  she  meant  to  be  a  good  girl,  and,  in  her  own 
mind,  she  thought  she  was  a  very  good  girl  to  do  so 
much  work,  and  remember  so  many  different  things  in  so 
many  different  places,  and  forget  so  few  things. 

Maggie  praised  herself  to  herself,  just  as  you  do,  my 
young  lady,  when  you  have  an  energetic  turn  in  house 
hold  matters,  and  arrange  and  beautify,  and  dust,  and 
adorn  mamma's  parlors,  and  then  call  on  mamma  and 
papa  and  all  the  family  to  witness  and  applaud  your 
notability.  At  sixteen  or  seventeen,  household  virtue  is 
much  helped  in  its  development  by  praise.  Praise  is  sun 
shine  ;  it  warms,  it  inspires,  it  promotes  growth  :  blame  and 
rebuke  are  rain  and  hail ;  they  beat  down  and  bedraggle, 
even  though  they  may  at  times  be  necessary.  There 
was  a  time  in  Maggie's  life  when  a  kind,  judicious, 
thoughtful,  Christian  woman  might  have  kept  her  from 
falling,  might  have  won  her  confidence,  become  her 
guide  and  teacher,  and  piloted  her  through  the  danger 
ous  shoals  and  quicksands  which  beset  a  bright,  attract 
ive,  handsome  young  girl,  left  to  make  her  own  way 
alone  and  unprotected. 

But  it  was  not  given  to  Aunt  Maria  to  see  this  oppor 
tunity  ;  and,  under  her  system  of  management,  it  was  not 
long  before  Maggie's  temper  grew  fractious,  and  she  used 
to  such  purpose  the  democratic  liberty  of  free  speech, 
which  is  the  birthright  of  American  servants,  that  Mrs. 
Wouvermans  never  forgave  her. 

Maggie  told  her,  in  fact,  that  she  was  a  hard-hearted, 
mean,  selfish  woman,  who  wanted  to  get  all  she  could 
out  of  her  servants,  and  to  give  the  least  she  could  in 
return ;  and  this  came  a  little  too  near  the  truth  ever  to 


320  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

be  forgotten  or  forgiven.  Maggie  was  summarily  warned 
out  of  the  house,  and  went  home  to  her  mother,  who 
took  her  part  with  all  her  heart  and  soul,  and  declared 
that  Maggie  shouldn't  live  out  any  longer — she  should 
be  nobody's  servant. 

This,  to  be  sure,  was  silly  enough  in  Mary,  since  ser 
vice  is  the  law  of  society,  and  we  are  all  more  or  less 
servants  to  somebody  ;  but  uneducated  people  never 
philosophize  or  generalize,  and  so  cannot  help  them 
selves  to  wise  conclusions. 

All  Mary  knew  was  that  Maggie  had  been  scolded 
and  chafed  by  Mrs.  Wouvermans ;  her  handsome  darling 
had  been  abused,  and  she  should  get  into  some  higher 
place  in  the  world ;  and  so  she  put  her  as  workwoman 
into  the  fashionable  store  of  S.  S.  &  Co. 

There  Maggie  was  seen  and  coveted  by  the  man  who 
made  her  his  prey.  Maggie  was  seventeen,  pretty,  silly, 
hating  work  and  trouble,  longing  for  pleasure,  leisure, 
ease  and  luxury;  and  he  promised  them  all.  He  told 
her  that  she  was  too  pretty  to  work,  that  if  she  would 
trust  herself  to  him  she  need  have  no  more  care;  and 
Maggie  looked  forward  to  a  rich  marriage  and  a  home 
of  her  own.  To  do  her  justice,  she  loved  the  man  that 
promised  this  with  all  the  warmth  of  her  Irish  heart. 
To  her,  he  was  the  splendid  prince  in  the  fairy  tale, 
come  to  take  her  from  poverty  and  set  her  among 
princes;  and  she  felt  she  could  not  do  too  much  for  him. 
She  would  be  such  a  good  wife,  she  would  be  so  devoted, 
she  would  improve  herself  and  learn  so  that  she  might 
never  discredit  him. 

Alas!  in  just  such  an  enchanted  garden  of  love,  and 
hope,  and  joy,  how  often  has  the  ground  caved  in  and 
let  the  victim  down  into  dungeons  of  despair  that  never 
open! 

Maggie  thinks  all  this  over  as  she  pursues  her  cheer- 


f.C 


GOING  TO  THE  BAD. 

The  sweet-faced  -woman  calls  the  attention  of  her  husband.  He 
frowns, -whips  up  the  horse,  and  is  gone.  .  .  Bitterness  possesses 
Maggie1  s  soul.  .  .  Why  not  go  to  the  bad?" — p.  327. 


GOING    TO    THE  BAD.  337 

less,  aimless  way  through  the  cold  cutting  wind,  and 
looks  into  face  after  face  that  has  no  pity  for  her. 
Scarcely  knowing  why  she  did  it,  she  took  a  car  and 
rode  up  to  the  Park,  got  out,  and  wandered  drearily  up 
and  down  among  the  leafless  paths  from  which  all  trace 
of  summer  greenness  had  passed. 

Suddenly,  a  carriage  whirred  past  her.  She  looked 
up.  There  he  sat,  driving,  and  by  his  side  so  sweet  a 
lady,  and  between  them  a  flaxen-haired  little  beauty, 
clasping  a  doll  in  her  chubby  arms ! 

The  sweet-faced  woman  looks  pitifully  at  the  hag 
gard,  weary  face,  and  says  something  to  call  the  attention 
of  her  husband.  An  angry  flush  rises  to  his  face.  He 
frowns,  and  whips  up  the  horse,  and  is  gone.  A  sort  of 
rage  and  bitterness  possess  Maggie's  soul.  What  is  the 
use  of  trying  to  do  better  ?  Nobody  pities  her.  Nobody 
helps  her.  The  world  is  all  against  her.  Why  not  go 
to  the  bad? 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

A    SOUL    IN    PERIL. 

IT  will  be  seen  by  the  way  in  which  we  left  poor 
Maggie  that  she  stood  in  just  one  of  those  critical 
steep  places  of  life  where  a  soul  is  in  pain  and  peril; 
where  the  turning  of  a  hair's  breadth  may  decide  be 
tween  death  and  life.  And  it  is  something,  not  only  to 
the  individual,  but  to  the  whole  community,  what  a 
woman  may  become  in  one  of  these  crises  of  life. 

Maggie  had  a  rich,  warm,  impulsive  nature,  full  of 
passion  and  energy;  she  had  personal  beauty  and  the 
power  that  comes  from  it;  she  had  in  her  all  that  might 
have  made  the  devoted  wife  and  mother,  fitted  to  give 
strong  sons  and  daughters  to  our  republic,  and  to  bring 
them  up  to  strengthen  our  country.  But,  deceived, 
betrayed,  led  astray  by  the  very  impulses  which  should 
have  ended  in  home  and  marriage,  with  even  her  best 
friends  condemning  her,  her  own  heart  condemning  her, 
the  whole  face  of  the  world  set  against  her,  her  feet 
stood  in  slippery  places. 

There  is  another  life  open  to  .the  woman  whom  the 
world  judges  and  rejects  and  condemns;  a  life  short, 
bad,  desperate ;  a  life  of  revenge,  of  hate,  of  deceit ;  a 
life  in  which  woman,  outraged  and  betrayed  by  man, 
turns  bitterly  upon  him,  to  become  the  tempter,  the  be 
trayer,  the  ruiner  of  man, — to  visit  misery  and  woe  on 
the  society  that  condemns  her. 

Many  a  young  man  has  been  led  to  gambling,  and 
drinking,  and  destruction ;  many  a  wife's  happiness  has 
been  destroyed ;  many  a  mother  has  wept  on  a  sleepless 


A    SOUL   IN  PERIL.  329 

pillow  over  a  son  worse  than  dead, — only  because  some 
woman,  who  at  a  certain  time  in  her  life  might  have  been 
saved  to  honor  and  good  living,  has  been  left  to  be  a  ves 
sel  of  wrath  fitted  to  destruction.  For  we  have  seen  in 
Maggie's  history  that  there  were  points  all  along,  where 
the  girl  might  have  been  turned  into  another  and  a  bet 
ter  way. 

If  Mrs.  Maria  Wouvermans,  instead  of  railing  at  her 
love  of  feathers  and  flowers,  watching  for  her  halting,  and 
seeking  occasion  against  her,  had  only  had  grace  to  do 
for  her  what  lies  in  the  power  of  every  Christian  mis 
tress  ;  if  she  had  won  her  confidence,  given  her  motherly 
care  and  sympathy,  and  trained  her  up  under  the  pro 
tection  of  household  influences,  it  might  have  been  other 
wise.  Or,  supposing  that  Maggie  were  too  self-willed, 
too  elate  with  the  flatteries  that  come  to  young  beauty, 
to  be  saved  from  a  fall,  yet,  after  that  fall,  when  she  rose, 
ashamed  and  humbled,  there  was  still  a  chance  of  retrieval. 

Perhaps  there  is  never  a  time  when  man  or  woman 
has  a  better  chance,  with  suitable  help,  of  building  a 
good  character  than  just  after  a  humiliating  fall  which 
has  taught  the  sinner  his  ovn  weakness,  and  given  him  a 
sad  experience  of  the  bitterness  of  sin. 

Nobody  wants  to  be  sold  under  sin,  and  go  the  whole 
length  in  iniquity;  and  when  one  has  gone  just  far 
enough  in  wrong  living  to  perceive  in  advance  all  its 
pains  and  penalties,  there  is  often  an  agonized  effort  to 
get  back  to  respectability,  like  the  clutching  of  the 
drowning  man  for  the  shore.  The  waters  of  death  are 
cold  and  bitter,  and  nobody  wants  to  be  drowned. 

But  it  is  just  at  this  point  that  the  drowning  hand  is 
wrenched  off;  society  fears  that  the  poor  wet  wretch  will 
upset  its  respectable  boat;  it  pushes  him  off,  and  rows 
over  the  last  rising  bubbles. 

And  this  is  not  in  the  main  because  men  and  women 


330  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

are  hard-hearted  or  cruel,  but  because  they  are  busy, 
every  one  of  them,  with  their  own  works  and  ways,  hur 
ried,  driven,  with  no  time,  strength,  or  heart-leisure  for 
more  than  they  are  doing.  What  is  one  poor  soul  strug 
gling  in  the  water,  swimming  up  stream,  to  the  great 
pushing,  busy,  bustling  world  ? 

Nothing  in  the  review  of  life  appears  to  us  so  pitiful 
as  the  absolute  nothingness  of  the  individual  in  the  great 
mass  of  human  existence.  To  each  living,  breathing, 
suffering  atom,  the  consciousness  of  what  it  desires  and 
suffers  is  so  intense,  and  to  every  one  else  so  faint.  It  is 
faint  even  to  the  nearest  and  dearest,  compared  to  what 
it  is  to  one's  self.  "  The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitter 
ness,  and  a  stranger  intermeddleth  not  therewith." 

Suppose  you  were  suddenly  struck  down  to-day  by 
death  in  any  of  its  dreadful  forms,  how  much  were  this 
to  you,  how  little  to  the  world !  how  little  even  to  the 
friendly  world,  who  think  well  of  you  and  wish  you 
kindly  !  The  paper  that  tells  the  tale  scarcely  drops  from 
their  hand ;  a  few  shocked  moments  of  pity  or  lamenta 
tion,  perhaps,  and  then  returns  the  discussion  of  what 
shall  be  for  dinner,  and  whether  the  next  dress  shall  be 
cut  with  flounces  or  folds :  the  gay  waves  of  life  dance 
and  glitter  over  the  last  bubble  which  marks  where  you 
sank. 

So  we  have  seen  poor  Maggie,  with  despair  and  bitter 
ness  in  her  heart,  wandering,  on  a  miserable  cold  day, 
through  the  Christmas  rejoicings  of  New  York,  on  the 
very  verge  of  going  back  to  courses  that  end  in  unutter 
able  degradation  and  misery ;  and  yet,  how  little  it  was 
anybody's  business  to  seek  or  to  save  her. 

"  So,"  said  Mrs.  Wouvermans,  in  a  tone  of  exultation, 
when  she  heard  of  Maggie's  flight,  "  I  hope,  I'm  sure, 
Eva's  had  enough  of  her  fine  ways  of  managing !  Miss 
Maggie's  off,  just  as  I  knew  she'd  be.  That  girl  is  a 


A    SOUL  IN  PERIL.  331 

baggage!  And  now,  of  course,  nothing  must  do  but 
Mary  must  be  off  to  look  for  her,  and  then  Eva  is  left 
with  all  her  house  on  her  hands.  I  should  think  this 
would  show  her  that  my  advice  wasn't  so  altogether  to 
be  scorned." 

Now,  it  is  not  to  be  presumed  that  Mrs.  Wouvermans 
really  was  so  cruel  as  to  exult  in  the  destruction  of 
Maggie,  and  the  perplexity  and  distress  of  her  mother, 
or  in  Eva's  domestic  discomfort;  yet  there  was  some 
thing  very  like  this  in  the  tone  of  her  remarks. 

Whence  is  the  feeling  of  satisfaction  which  we  have 
when  things  that  we  always  said  we  knew,  turn  out  just 
as  we  predicted?  Had  we  really  rather  our  neighbor 
would  be  proved  a  thief  and  a  liar  than  to  be  proved  in 
a  mistake  ourselves?  Would  we  be  willing  to  have 
somebody  topple  headlong  into  destruction  for  the  sake 
of  being  able  to  say,  "  I  told  you  so  "  ? 

Mrs.  Wouvermans  did  not  ask  herself  these  pointed 
questions,  and  so  she  stirred  her  faultless  coffee  without 
stirring  up  a  doubt  of  her  own  Christianity — for,  like  you 
and  me,  Mrs.  Wouvermans  held  herself  to  be  an  ordina 
rily  good  Christian. 

Gentle,  easy  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  heard  this  news  with 
acquiescence.  "Well,  girls,  so  that  Maggie's  run  off  and 
settled  the  question ;  and,  on  the  whole,  I'm  not  sorry, 
for  that  ends  Eva's  responsibility  for  her;  and,  after 
all,  I  think  your  aunt  was  half  right  about  that  matter. 
One  does  n't  want  to  have  too  much  to  do  with  such 
people." 

"But,  mamma,"  said  Alice,  "it  seems  such  a  dread 
ful  thing  that  so  young  a  girl,  not  older  than  I  am,  should 
be  utterly  lost." 

"  Yes,  but  you  can't  help  it,  and  such  things  are  hap 
pening  all  the  time,  and  it  isn't  worth  while  making  our 
selves  unhappy  about  it.  I'm  sure  Eva  acted  like  a  little 


332  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

saint  about  it,  and  the  girl  can  have  no  one  to  blame  but 
herself." 

"I  know,"  said  Alice;  "Eva  told  me  about  it.  It 
was  Aunt  Maria,  with  her  usual  vigor  and  activity,  who 
precipitated  the  catastrophe.  Eva  had  just  got  the  girl 
into  good  ways,  and  all  was  going  smoothly,  when  Aunt 
Maria  came  in  and  broke  everything  up.  I  must  say,  I 
think  Aunt  Maria  is  a  nuisance." 

"Oh,  Alice,  how  can  you  talk  so,  when  you  know 
that  your  aunt  is  thinking  of  nothing  so  much  as  how  to 
serve  and  advance  you  girls  ?" 

"  She  is  thinking  of  how  to  carry  her  own  will  and 
pleasure ;  and  we  girls  are  like  so  many  ninepins  that 
she  wants  to  set  up  or  knock  down  to  suit  her  game. 
Now  she  has  gone  and  invited  those  Stephenson  girls  to 
spend  the  holidays  with  her." 

"  Well,  you  know  it's  entirely  on  your  account,  Alice, 
— you  girls.  The  Stephensons  are  a  very  desirable  fam 
ily  to  cultivate." 

"Yes;  it's  all  a  sort  of  artifice,  so  that  they  may 
have  to  invite  us  to  visit  them  next  summer  at  Newport. 
Now,  I  never  was  particularly  interested  in  those  girls. 
They  always  seemed  to  me  insipid  sort  of  people ;  and 
to  feel  obliged  to  be  very  attentive  to  them  and  cultivate 
their  intimacy,  with  any  such  view,  is  a  sort  of  maneu 
vering  that  is  very  repulsive  to  me;  it  doesn't  seem 
honest." 

"  But  now  your  aunt  has  got  them,  and  we  must  be 
attentive  to  them,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel. 

"  Oh,  of  course.  What  I  am  complaining  of  is  that  my 
aunt  can't  let  us  alone;  that  she  is  always  scheming  for 
us,  planning  ahead  for  us,  getting  people  that  we  must 
be  attentive  to,  and  all  that;  and  then,  because  she's  our 
aunt  and  devoted  to  our  interests,  our  conscience  is  all 
the  while  troubling  us  because  we  don't  like  her  better. 


A    SOUL  IN  PERIL.  333 

The  truth  is,  Aunt  Maria  is  a  constant  annoyance  to 
me,  and  I  reproach  myself  for  not  being  grateful  to  her. 
Now,  Angelique  and  I  are  on  a  committee  for  buying 
the  presents  for  the  Christmas-tree  of  our  mission-school, 
and  we  shall  have  to  go  and  get  the  tree  up;  and  it's  no 
small  work  to  dress  a  Christmas-tree — in  fact,  we  shall 
just  have  our  hands  full,  without  the  Stephensons.  We 
are  going  up  to  Eva's  this  very  morning,  to  talk  this 
matter  over  and  make  out  our  lists  of  things ;  and,  for 
my  part,  I  find  the  Stephensons  altogether  de  trop." 

Meanwhile,  in  Eva's  little  dominion,  peace  and  pros 
perity  had  returned  with  the  return  of  cook  to  the 
kitchen  cabinet.  A  few  days'  withdrawal  of  that  im 
portant  portion  of  the  household  teaches  the  mistress 
many  things,  and,  among  others,  none  more  definitely 
than  the  real  dignity  and  importance  of  that  sphere 
which  is  generally  regarded  as  least  and  lowest. 

Mary  had  come  back  disheartened  from  a  fruitless 
quest.  Maggie  had  indeed  been  at  Poughkeepsie,  and 
had  spent  a  day  and  a  night  with  a  widowed  sister  of 
Mary's,  and  then,  following  a  restless  impulse,  had  gone 
back  to  New  York — none  knew  whither ;  and  Mary  was 
going  on  with  her  duties  with  that  quiet,  acquiescent 
sadness  with  which  people  of  her  class  bear  sorrow 
which  they  have  no  leisure  to  indulge.  The  girl  had 
for  two  or  three  years  been  lost  to  her;  but  the  brief 
interval  of  restoration  seemed  to  have  made  the  pang 
of  losing  her  again  still  more  dreadful.  Then,  the  an 
ticipated  mortification  of  having  to  tell  Mike  of  it,  and 
the  thought  of  what  Mike  and  Mike's  wife's  would  say, 
were  a  stinging*  poison.  Though  Maggie's  flight  was 
really  due  in»  a  great  measure  to  Mike's  own  ungracious 
reception  of  her  and  his  harsh  upbraidings,  intensified 
by  what  she  had  overheard  from  Mrs.  Wouvermans,  yet 
Mary  was  quite  sure  that  Mike  would  receive  it  as  a 


334  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

confirmation  of  his  own  sagacity  in  the  opinion  he  had 
pronounced. 

The  hardness  and  apathy  with  which  even  near  rela 
tions  will  consign  their  kith  and  kin  to  utter  ruin  is  one 
of  the  sad  phenomena  of  life.  Mary  knew  that  Mike 
would  say  to  her,  "Didn't  I  tell  you  so?  The  girl's 
gone  to  the  bad ;  let  her  go  !  She's  made  her  bed  ;  let 
her  lie  in  it." 

It  was  only  from  her  gentle,  sympathetic  mistress 
that  Mary  met  with  a  word  of  comfort.  Eva  talked  with 
her,  and  encouraged  her  to  pour  out  all  her  troubles  and 
opened  the  door  of  her  own  heart  to  her  sorrows.  Eva 
cheered  and  comforted  her  all  she  could,  though  she  had 
small  hopes,  herself. 

She  had  told  Mr.  Fellows,  she  said,  and  Mr.  Fellows 
knew  all  about  New  York — knew  everybody  and  every 
thing — and  if  Maggie  were  there  he  would  be  sure  to 
hear  of  her ;  "  and  if  she  is  anywhere  in  New  York  I  will 
go  to  her,"  said  Eva,  "  and  persuade  her  to  come  back 
and  be  a  good  girl.  And  don't  you  tell  your  brother 
anything  about  it.  Why  need  he  know  ?  I  dare  say  we 
shall  get  Maggie  back,  and  all  going  right,  before  he 
knows  anything  about  it." 

Eva  had  just  been  talking  to  this  effect  to  Mary  in 
the  kitchen,  and  she  came  back  into  her  parlor,  to  find 
there  poor,  fluttering,  worried  little  Mrs.  Betsey  Benthusen, 
who  had  come  in  to  bewail  her  prodigal  son,  of  whom,  for 
now  three  days  and  nights,  no  tidings  had  been  heard. 

"  I  came  in  to  ask  you,  dear  Mrs.  Henderson,  if  any 
thing  has  been  heard  from  the  advertising  of  Jack?  I 
declare,  I  haven't  been  able  to  sleep  since  he  went,  I  am 
so  worried.  I  dare  say  you  must  think  it  silly  of  me," 
she  said,  wiping  her  eyes,  "but  I  am  just  so  silly.  I 
really  had  got  so  fond  of  him — I  feel  so  lonesome  with 
out  him." 


A    SOUL  IN  PERIL.  335 

"Silly,  dear  friend!"  said  Eva  in  her  usual  warm, 
impulsive  way,  "  no,  indeed ;  I  think  it's  perfectly  nat 
ural  that  you  should  feel  as  you  do.  I  think,  for  my 
part,  these  poor  dumb  pets  were  given  us  to  love ;  and 
if  we  do  love  them,  we  can't  help  feeling  anxious  about 
them  when  they  are  gone." 

"You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  "if  I  only  knew — but  I 
don't — if  I  knew  just  where  he  was,  or  if  he  was  well 
treated;  but  then,  Jack  is  a  dog  that  has  been  used  to 
kindness,  and  it  would  come  hard  to  him  to  have  to 
suffer  hunger  and  thirst,  and  be  kicked  about  and 
abused.  I  lay  and  thought  about  things  that  might 
happen  to  him,  last  night,  till  I  fairly  cried  " — and  the 
tears  stood  in  the  misty  blue  eyes  of  the  faded  little  old 
gentlewoman,  in  attestation  of  the  possibility.  "  I  got  so 
wrought  up,"  she  continued,  "  that  I  actually  prayed  to 
my  Heavenly  Father  to  take  care  of  my  poor  Jack.  Do 
you  think  that  was  profane,  Mrs.  Henderson  ? — I  just 
could  not  help  it." 

"No,  dear  Mrs.  Betsey,  I  don't  think  it  was  profane; 
I  think  it  was  just  the  most  sensible  thing  you  could  do. 
You  know  our  Saviour  says  that  not  a  sparrow  falls  to 
the  ground  without  our  Father,  and  I'm  sure  Jack  is  a 
good  deal  larger  than  a  sparrow." 

"Well,  I  didn't  tell  Dorcas,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  "be 
cause  she  thinks  I'm  foolish,  and  I  suppose  I  am.  I'm  a 
broken-up  old  woman  now,  and  I  never  had  as  much 
strength  of  mind  as  Dorcas,  anyway.  Dorcas  has  a  very 
strong  mind,"  said  little  Mrs.  Betsy  in  a  tone  of  awe; 
"  she  has  tried  all  she  could  to  strengthen  mine,  but  she 
can't  do  much  with  me." 

Just  at  this  instant,  Eva,  looking  through  the  win 
dow  down  street,  saw  Jim  Fellows  approaching,  with 
Jack's  head  appearing  above  his  shoulder  in  that 
easy,  jaunty  attitude  with  which  the  restored  lamb  is 


WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

represented  in  a  modern  engraving  of  the  Good  Shep 
herd. 

There  he  sat,  to  be  sure,  with  a  free  and  easy  air  of 
bright,  doggish  vivacity ;  perched  aloft  with  his  pink 
tongue  hanging  gracefully  out  of  his  mouth,  and  his 
great,  bright  eyes  and  little  black  tip  of  a  nose  gleaming 
out  from  the  silvery  thicket  of  his  hair,  looking  anything 
but  penitent  for  all  the  dismays  and  sorrows  of  which  he 
had  been  the  cause. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Betsey,  do  come  here,"  cried  Eva;  "here 
is  Jack,  to  be  sure !" 

"You  don't  say  so!  Why,  so  he  is;  that  dear,  good 
Mr.  Fellows  !  how  can  I  ever  thank  him  enough  !" 

And,  as  Jim  mounted  the  steps,  Eva  hastened  to 
open  the  door  in  anticipation  of  the  door-bell. 

"Any  dogs  to-day,  ma'am?"  said  Jim  in  the  tone  of  a 
pedlar. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Henderson  !"  said  Mrs.  Betsey.  But  what 
further  she  said  was  lost  in  Jack's  vociferous  bark 
ing.  He  had  recognized  Mrs.  Betsey  and  struggled 
down  out  of  Jim's  arms,  and  was  leaping  and  capering 
and  barking,  overwhelming  his  mistress  with  obstreper 
ous  caresses,  in  which  there  was  not  the  slightest  recog 
nition  of  any  occasion  for  humility  or  penitence.  Jack 
was  forgiving  Mrs.  Betsey  with  all  his  might  and  main 
for  all  the  trouble  he  had  caused,  and  expressing  his 
perfect  satisfaction  and  delight  at  finding  himself  at 
home  again. 

"Well,"  said  Jim,  in  answer  to  the  numerous  ques 
tions  showered  upon  him,  "  the  fact  is  that  Dixon  and  I 
were  looking  up  something  to  write  about  in  a  not  very 
elegant  or  reputable  quarter  of  New  York,  and  suddenly, 
as  we  were  passing  one  of  the  dance  houses,  that  girl 
Maggie  darted  out  with  Jack  in  her  arms,  and  calling 
after  me  by  name,  she  said:  'This  poor  dog  belongs  to 


A    SOUL  IN  PERIL.  337 

the  people  opposite  Mrs.  Henderson's.  He  has  been 
stolen  away,  and  won't  you  take  him  back?'  I  said  I 
would,  and  then  I  said,  '  Seems  to  me,  Maggie,  you'd 
better  come  back,  too,  to  your  mother,  who  is  worrying 
dreadfully  about  you.'  But  she  turned  quickly  and  said, 
*  The  less  said  about  me  the  better,'  and  ran  in." 

"Oh,  how  dreadful  that  anybody  should  be  so  de 
praved  at  her  age,"  said  little  Mrs.  Betsey,  complacently 
caressing  Jack.  "  Mrs.  Henderson,  you  have  had  a  for 
tunate  escape  of  her ;  you  must  be  glad  to  get  her  out  of 
your  house.  Well,  I  must  hurry  home  with  him  and  get 
him  washed  up,  for  he's  in  such  a  state  !  And  do  look  at 
this  ribbon  !  Would  you  know  it  ever  had  been  a  ribbon  ? 
it's  thick  with  grease  and  dirt,  and  I  dare  say  he's  cov- 
erved  with  fleas.  O  Jack,  Jack,  what  trouble  you  have 
made  me!" 

And  the  little  woman  complacently  took  up  her  crim 
inal,  who  went  off  on  her  shoulder  with  his  usual  waggish 
air  of  impudent  assurance. 

"See  what  luck  it  is  to  be  a  dog,"  said  Jim.  "No 
body  would  have  half  the  patience  with  a  ragamuffin 
boy,  now !" 

"  But,  seriously,  Jim,  what  can  be  done  about  poor 
Maggie?  I've  promised  her  mother  to  get  her  back,  if 
she  could  be  discovered." 

"Well,  really  she  is  in  one  of  the  worst  drinking 
saloons  of  that  quarter,  kept  by  Mother  Mogg,  who  is, 
to  put  the  matter  explicitly,  a  sort  of  she  devil.  It  isn't 
a  place  where  it  would  do  for  me  or  any  of  the  boys  to 
go.  We  are  not  calculated  for  missionary  work  in  just 
that  kind  of  field." 

"Well,  who  can  go?  What  can  be  done?  I've 
promised  Mary  to  save  her.  I'll  go  myself,  if  you'll  show 
me  the  way." 

"You,  Mrs.  Henderson?  You  don't  know  what  you 
p 


338  WE  AND   OUR   NEIGHBORS. 

are  talking  about.  You  never  could  go  there.  It  isn't 
to  be  thought  of." 

"  But  somebody  must  go,  Jim ;  we  can't  leave  her 
there." 

"  Well,  now  I  think  of  it,"  said  Jim,  "  there  is  a 
Methodist  minister  who  has  undertaken  to  set  up  a  mis 
sion  in  just  that  part  of  the  city.  They  bought  a  place 
that  used  to  be  kept  for  a  rat-pit,  and  had  it  cleaned  up, 
and  they  have  opened  a  mission  house,  and  have  prayer- 
meetings  and  such  things  there.  I'll  look  that  thing  up ; 
perhaps  he  can  find  Maggie  for  you.  Though  I  must  say 
you  are  taking  a  great  deal  of  trouble  about  this  girl." 

"  Well,  Jim,  she  has  a  mother,  and  her  mother  loves 
her  as  yours  does  you." 

"By  George,  now,  that's  enough,"  said  Jim.  "You 
don't  need  to  say  another  word.  I'll  go  right  about  it, 
this  very  day,  and  hunt  up  this  Mr.  What's-his-name,  and 
find  all  about  this  mission.  I've  been  meaning  to  write 
that  thing  up  this  month  or  so." 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

LOVE   IN   CHRISTMAS   GREENS. 

THE  little  chapel  in  one  of  the  out-of-the-way  streets 
of  New  York  presented  a  scene  of  Christmas  activ 
ity  and  cheerfulness  approaching  to  gaiety.  The  whole 
place  was  fragrant  with  the  spicy  smell  of  spruce  and 
hemlock.  Baskets  of  green  ruffles  of  ground-pine  were 
foaming  over  their  sides  with  abundant  contributions 
from  the  forest ;  and  bright  bunches  of  vermilion  bitter 
sweet,  and  the  crimson-studded  branches  of  the  black 
alder,  added  color  to  the  picture.  Of  real  traditional 
holly,  which  in  America  is  a  rarity,  there  was  a  scant 
supply,  reserved  for  more  honorable  decorations. 

Mr.  St.  John  had  been  busy  in  his  vestry  with  paper, 
colors,  and  gilding,  illuminating  some  cards  with  Scrip 
tural  mottoes.  He  had  just  brought  forth  his  last  effort 
and  placed  it  in  a  favorable  light  for  inspection.  It  is  the 
ill-fortune  of  every  successful  young  clergyman  to  stir 
the  sympathies  and  enkindle  the  venerative  faculties  of 
certain  excitable  women,  old  and  young,  who  follow  his 
footsteps  and  regard  his  works  and  ways  with  a  sort  of 
adoring  rapture  that"  sometimes  exposes  him  to  ridicule 
if  he  accepts  it,  and  which  yet  it  seems  churlish  to 
decline.  It  is  not  generally  his  fault,  nor  exactly  the 
fault  of  the  women,  often  amiably  sincere  and  uncon 
scious;  but  it  is  a  fact  that  this  kind  of  besetment  is 
more  or  less  the  lot  of  every  clergyman,  and  he  cannot 
help  it.  It  is  to  be  accepted  as  we  accept  any  of  the 
shadows  which  are  necessary  in  the  picture  of  life,  and 
got  along  with  by  the  kind  of  common  sense  with  which 
we  dispose  of  any  of  its  infelicities. 


340  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Mr.  St.  John  did  little  to  excite  demonstrations  of 
this  kind ;  but  the  very  severity  with  which  he  held  him 
self  in  reserve  seemed  rather  to  increase  a  kind  of  sacred 
prestige  which  hung  around  him,  making  of  him  a  sort 
of  churchly  Grand  Llama.  When,  therefore,  he  brought 
out  his  illuminated  card,  on  which  were  inscribed  in 
Anglo  Saxon  characters, 

"  The  Word  was  made  flesh 
And  dwelt  among  us," 

there  was  a  loud  acclaim  of  "  How  lovely  !  how  sweet!" 
with  groans  of  intense  admiration  from  Miss  Augusta 
Gusher  and  Miss  Sophroma  Vapors,  which  was  echoed 
in  "ohs!"  and  "ahs!"  from  an  impressible  group  of  girls 
on  the  right  and  left. 

Angelique  stood  quietly  gazing  on  it,  with  a  wreath 
of  ground-pine  dangling  from  her  hand,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

Mr.  St.  John  at  last  said,  "And  what  do  you  think, 
Miss  Van  Arsdel?" 

"  I  think  the  colors  are  pretty,"  Angie  said,  hesitat 
ing,  "but"— 

"But  what?"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  quickly. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  it  means — I  don't  under 
stand  it." 

Mr.  St.  John  immediately  read  the  inscription  in 
concert  with  Miss  Gusher,  who  was  a  very  mediaeval 
young  lady  and  quite  up  to  reading  Gothic,  or  Anglo 
Saxon,  or  Latin,  or  any  Churchly  tongue. 

"Oh!"  was  all  the  answer  Angie  made;  and  then, 
seeing  something  more  was  expected,  she  added  again, 
"I  think  the  effect  of  the  lettering  very  pretty,"  and 
turned  away,  and  busied  herself  with  a  cross  of  ground- 
pine  that  she  was  making  in  a  retired  corner. 

The  chorus  were  loud  and  continuous  in  their  ac- 


SKIRMISHING. 

"  I  like  your  -work"  he  said,  "better  than  you  do  mine"      "  I didn't 
say  that  I  didn't  like  yours."  said  Angie,  coloring. — p.  341. 


LOVE  IN  CHRISTMAS  GREENS.  341 

claims,  and  Miss  Gusher  talked  learnedly  of  lovely 
inscriptions  in  Greek  and  Latin,  offering  to  illuminate 
some  of  them  for  the  occasion.  Mr.  St.  John  thanked 
her  and  withdrew  to  his  sanctum,  less  satisfied  than 
before. 

About  half  an  hour  after,  Angie,  who  was  still  quietly 
busy  upon  her  cross  in  her  quiet  corner,  under  the  shade 
of  a  large  hemlock  tree  which  had  been  erected  there, 
was  surprised  to  find  Mr.  St.  John  standing,  silently 
observing  her  work. 

"I  like  your  work,"  he  said,  "better  than  you  did 
mine." 

"I  didn't  say  that  I  didn't  like  yours,"  said  Angie, 
coloring,  and  with  that  sort  of  bright,  quick  movement 
that  gave  her  the  air  of  a  bird  just  going  to  fly. 

"  No,  you  did  not  say,  but  you  left  approbation  un 
said,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  You  have  some 
objection,  I  see,  and  I  really  wish  you  would  tell  me 
frankly  what  it  is." 

"  O  Mr.  Su  John,  don't  say  that !  Of  course  I 
never  thought  of  objecting;  it  would  be  presumptuous 
in  me.  I  really  don't  understand  these  matters  at  all, 
not  at  all.  I  just  don't  know  anything  about  Gothic 
letters  and  all  that,  and  so  the  card  doesn't  say  anything 
to  me.  And  I  must  confess,  I  thought " — 

Here  Angie,  like  a  properly  behaved  young  daughter 
of  the  Church,  began  to  perceive  that  her  very  next  sen 
tence  might  lead  her  into  something  like  a  criticism 
upon  her  rector;  and  she  paused  on  the  brink  of  a  gulf 
so  horrible,  "with  pious  awe  that  feared  to  have  of 
fended." 

Mr.  St.  John  felt  a  very  novel  and  singular  pleasure 
in  the  progress  of  this  interview.  It  interested  him  to 
be  differed  with,  and  he  said,  with  a  slight  intonation  of 
dictation : 


342  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  I  must  insist  on  your  telling  me  what  you  thought, 
Miss  Angie." 

"  Oh,  nothing,  only  this — that  if  /,  who  have  had 
more  education  than  our  Sunday-school  scholars,  can't 
read  a  card  like  that,  why,  they  could  not.  I'm  quite 
sure  that  an  inscription  in  plain  modern  letters  that  I 
could  read  would  have  more  effect  upon  my  mind,  and  I 
am  quite  sure  it  would  on  them." 

"  I  thank  you  sincerely  for  your  frankness,  Miss 
Angie;  your  suggestion  is  a  valuable  one." 

"I  think,"  said  Angie,  "that  mediaeval  inscriptions, 
and  Greek  and  Latin  mottoes,  are  interesting  to  edu 
cated,  cultivated  people.  The  very  fact  of  their  being 
in  another  language  gives  a  sort  of  piquancy  to  them. 
The  idea  gets  a  new  coloring  from  a  new  language ;  but 
to  people  who  absolutely  don't  understand  a  word,  they 
say  nothing,  and  of  course  they  do  no  good ;  so,  at  least, 
it  seems  to  me." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Miss  Angie,  and  I  shall  imme 
diately  put  my  inscription  into  the  English  of  to-day. 
The  fact  is,  Miss  Angie,"  added  St.  John  after  a  silent 
pause,  "  I  feel  more  and  more  what  a  misfortune  it  has 
been  to  me  that  I  never  had  a  sister.  There  are  so  many 
things  where  a  woman's  mind  sees  so  much  more  clearly 
than  a  man's.  I  never  had  any  intimate  female  friend." 
Here  Mr.  St.  John  began  assiduously  tying  up  little 
bunches  of  the  ground-pine  in  the  form  which  An<Ye 
needed  for  her  cross,  and  laying  them  for  her. 

Now,  if  Angie  had  been  a  sophisticated  young  lady, 
familiar  with  the  tactics  of  flirtation,  she  might  have  had 
precisely  the  proper  thing  at  hand  to  answer  this  remark ; 
as  it  was,  she  kept  on  tying  her  bunches  assiduously  and 
feeling  a  little  embarrassed. 

It  was  a  pity  he  should  not  have  a  sister,  she  thought. 
Poor  man,  it  must  be  lonesome  for  him;  and  Angie's 


LOVE  IN  CHRISTMAS  GREENS.  343 

face  at  this  moment  must  have '  expressed  some  com 
miseration  or  some  emotion  that  emboldened  the  young 
man  to  say,  in  a  lower  tone,  as  he  laid  down  a  bunch  of 
green  by  her : 

"  If  you,  Miss  Angie,  would  look  on  me  as  you  do  on 
your  brothers,  and  tell  me  sincerely  your  opinion  of  me, 
it  might  be  a  great  help  to  me." 

Now  Mr.  St.  John  was  certainly  as  innocent  and 
translucently  ignorant  of  life  as  Adam  at  the  first  hour 
of  his  "creation,  not  to  know  that  the  tone  in  which  he 
was  speaking  and  the  impulse  from  which  he  spoke,  at 
that  moment,  was  in  fact  that  of  man's  deepest,  most 
absorbing  feeling  towards  woman.  He  had  made  his 
scheme  of  life ;  and,  as  a  set  purpose,  had  left  love  out 
of  it,  as  something  too  terrestrial  and  mundane  to  con 
sist  with  the  sacred  vocation  of  a  priest.  But,  from  the 
time  he  first  came  within  the  sphere  of  Angelique,  a 
strange,  delicious  atmosphere,  vague  and  dreamy,  yet 
delightful,  had  encircled  him,  and  so  perplexed  and  diz 
zied  his  brain  as  to  cause  all  sorts  of  strange  vibrations. 
At  first,  there  was  a  sort  of  repulsion — a  vague  alarm,  a 
suspicion  and  repulsion  singularly  blended  with  an 
attraction.  He  strove  to  disapprove  of  her ;  he  resolved 
not  to  think  of  her ;  he  resolutely  turned  his  head  away 
from  looking  at  her  in  her  place  in  Sunday-school  and 
church,  because  he  felt  that  his  thoughts  were  alarmingly 
drawn  in  that  direction. 

Then  came  his  invitation  into  society,  of  which  the 
hidden  charm,  unacknowledged  to  himself,  was  that  he 
should  meet  Angelique ;  and  that  mingling  in  society  had 
produced,  inevitably,  modifying  effects,  which  made  him 
quite  a  different  being  from  what  he  was  in  his  recluse 
life  passed  between  the  study  and  the  altar. 

It  is  not  in  man,  certainly  not  in  a  man  so  finely 
fibered  and  strung  as  St.  John,  to  associate  intimately 


344  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

with  his  fellows  without  feeling  their  forces  upon  him 
self,  and  rinding  many  things  in  himself  of  which  he  had 
not  dreamed. 

But  if  there  be  in  the  circle  some  one  female  presence 
which  all  the  while  is  sending  out  an  indefinite  though 
powerful  enchantment,  the  developing  force  is  still  more 
marked. 

St.  John  had  never  suspected  himself  of  the  ability 
to  be  so  agreeable  as  he  found  himself  in  the  constant 
reunions  which,  for  one  cause  or  another,  were  taking 
place  in  the  little  Henderson  house.  He  developed  a 
talent  for  conversation,  a  vein  of  gentle  humor,  a  turn 
for  versification,  with  a  cast  of  thought  rising  into  the 
sphere  of  poetry,  and  then,  with  Dr.  Campbell  and  Alice 
and  Angie,  he  formed  no  mean  quartette  in  singing. 

In  all  these  ways  he  had  been  coming  nearer  and 
nearer  to  Angie,  without  taking  the  alarm.  He  remem 
bered  appositely  what  Montalembert  in  his  history  of  the 
monks  of  the  Middle  Ages  says  of  the  female  friendships 
which  always  exerted  such  a  modifying  power  in  the  lives 
of  celebrated  saints ;  how  St.  Jerome  had  his  Eudochia, 
and  St.  Somebody-else  had  a  sister,  and  so  on.  And  as 
he  saw  more  and  more  of  Angelique's  character,  and  felt 
her  practical  efficiency  in  church  work,  he  thought  it 
would  be  very  lovely  to  have  such  a  friend  all  to  himself. 
Now,  friendship  on  the  part  of  a  young  man  of  twenty- 
five  for  a  young  saint  with  hazel  eyes  and  golden  hair, 
with  white,  twinkling  hands  and  a  sweet  voice,  and  an 
assemblage  of  varying  glances,  dimples  and  blushes,  is 
certainly  a  most  interesting  and  delightful  relation ;  and 
Mr.  St.  John  built  it  up  and  adorned  it  with  all  sorts  of 
charming  allegories  and  figures  and  images,  making  a 
sort  of  semi-celestial  affair  of  it. 

It  is  true,  he  had  given  up  St.  Jerome's  love,  and 
concluded  that  it  was  not  necessary  that  his  "heart's 


LOVE  IN  CHRISTMAS  GREENS.  345 

elect "  should  be  worn  and  weary  and  wasted,  or  resem 
ble  a  dying  altar-fire;  he  had  learned  to  admire  Angie's 
blooming  color  and  elastic  step,  and  even  to  take  an  ap 
preciative  delight  in  the  prettinesses  of  her  toilette ;  and, 
one  evening,  when  she  dropped  a  knot  of  peach-blow 
ribbons  from  her  bosom,  the  young  divine  had  most 
unscrupulously  appropriated  the  same,  and,  taking  it 
home,  gloated  over  it  as  a  holy  relic,  and  yet  he  never 
suspected  that, he  was  in  love — oh,  no!  And,  at  this 
moment,  when  his  voice  was  vibrating  with  that  strange 
revealing  power  that  voices  sometimes  have  in  moments 
of  emotion,  when  the  very  tone  is  more  than  the  words, 
he,  poor  fellow,  was  ignorant  that  his  voice  had  said  to 
Angie,  "  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul." 

But  there  is  no  girl  so  uninstructed  and  so  inexperi 
enced  as  not  to  be  able  to  interpret  a  tone  like  this  at 
once,  and  Angie  at  this  moment  felt  a  sort  of  bewilder 
ing  astonishment  at  the  revelation.  All  seemed  to  go 
round  and  round  in  dizzy  mazes — the  greens,  the  red 
berries — she  seemed  to  herself  to  be  walking  in  a  dream, 
and  Mr.  St.  John  with  her. 

She  looked  up  and  their  eyes  met,  and  at  that 
moment  the  veil  fell  from  between  them.  His  great, 
deep,  blue  eyes  had  in  them  an  expression  that  could 
not  be  mistaken. 

"Oh,  Mr.  St.  John!"  she  said. 

"Call  me  Arthur"  he  said,  entreatingly. 

"  Arthur ! "  she  said,  still  as  in  a  dream. 

"And  may  I  call  you  Angelique,  my  good  angel,  my 
guide  ?  Say  so  !"  he  added,  in  a  rapid,  earnest  whisper, 
"say  so,  dear,  dearest  Angie!" 

"Yes,  Arthur,"  she  said,  still  wondering. 

"And,  oh,  love  me,"  he  added,  in  a  whisper;  "a 
little,  ever  so  little  1  You  cannot  think  how  precious  it 
will  be  to  me!" 


346  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"Mr.  St.  John!"  called  the  voice  of  Miss  Gusher. 

He  started  in  a  guilty  way,  and  came  out  from  be 
hind  the  thick  shadows  of  the  evergreen  which  had  con 
cealed  this  little  tete-a-tete.  He  was  all  of  a  sudden 
transformed  to  Mr.  St.  John,  the  rector — distant,  cold, 
reserved,  and  the  least  bit  in  the  world  dictatorial.  In 
his  secret  heart,  Mr.  St.  John  did  not  like  Miss  Gusher. 
It  was  a  thing  for  which  he  condemned  himself,  for  she 
was  a  most  zealous  and  efficient  daughter  of  the  Church. 
She  had  worked  and  presented  a  most  elegant  set  of 
altar-cloths,  and  had  made  known  to  him  her  readiness 
to  join  a  sisterhood  whenever  he  was  ready  to  ordain 
one.  And  she  always  admired  him,  always  agreed  with 
him,  and  never  criticised  him,  which  perverse  little 
Angie  sometimes  did;  and  yet  ungrateful  Mr.  St.  John 
was  wicked  enough  at  this  moment  to  wish  Miss  Gusher 
at  the  bottom  of  the  Red  Sea,  or  in  any  other  Scriptural 
situation  whence  there  would  be  no  probability  of  her 
getting  at  him  for  a  season. 

u  I  wanted  you  to  decide  on  this  decoration  for  the 
font,"  she  said.  "  Now,  there  is  this  green  wreath  and 
this  red  cross  of  bitter-sweet.  To  be  sure,  there  is  no 
tradition  about  bitter-sweet ;  but  the  very  name  is  sym 
bolical,  and  I  thought  that  I  would  fill  the  font  with 
calla  lilies.  Would  lilies  at  Christmas  be  strictly 
Churchly  ?  That  is  my  only  doubt.  I  have  always  seen 
them  appropriated  to  Easter.  What  should  you  say,  Mr. 
St.  John?" 

"  Oh,  have  them  by  all  means,  if  you  can,"  said  Mr. 
St.  John.  "  Christmas  is  one  of  the  Church's  highest 
festivals,  and  I  admit  anything  that  will  make  it  beauti 
ful." 

Mr.  St.  John  said  this  with  a  radiancy  of  delight 
which  Miss  Gusher  ascribed  entirely  to  his  approbation 
of  her  zeal ;  but  the  heavens  and  the  earth  had  assumed 


LOVE  IN  CHRISTMAS  GREENS.  347 

a  new  aspect  to  him  since  that  little  talk  in  the  corner. 
For  when  Angie  lifted  her  eyes,  not  only  had  she  read 
the  unutterable  in  his,  but  he  also  had  looked  far  down 
into  the  depths  of  her  soul,  and  seen  something  he  did  not 
quite  dare  to  put  into  words,  but  in  the  light  of  which  his 
whole  life  now  seemed  transfigured. 

It  was  a  new  and  amazing  experience  to  Mr.  St.  John, 
and  he  felt  strangely  happy,  yet  particularly  anxious  that 
Miss  Gusher  and  Miss  Vapors,  and  all  the  other  tribe 
of  his  devoted  disciples,  should  not  by  any  means  sus 
pect  what  had  fallen  out ;  and  therefore  it  was  that  he 
assumed  such  a  cheerful  zeal  in  the  matter  of  the  font 
and  decorations. 

Meanwhile,  Angie  sat  in  her  quiet  corner,  like  a  good 
little  church  mouse,  working  steadily  and  busily  on  her 
cross.  Just  as  she  had  put  in  the  last  bunch  of  bitter 
sweet,  Mr.  St.  John  was  again-  at  her  elbow. 

"Angie,"  he  said,  "you  are  going  to  give  me  that 
cross.  I  want  it  for  my  study,  to  remember  this  morn 
ing  by." 

"But  I  made  it  for  the  front  of  the  organ." 

"  Never  mind.  I  can  put  another  there  ;  but  this  is 
to  be  mine"  he  said,  with  a  voice  of  appropriation.  "  I 
want  it  because  you  were  making  it  when  you  promised 
what  you  did.  You  must  keep  to  that  promise,  Angie." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  shall." 

"And  I  want  one  thing  more,"  he  said,  lifting  An 
gie 's  little  glove,  where  it  had  fallen  among  the  refuse 
pieces. 

"  What !— my  glove  ?     Is  not  that  silly  ?" 

"No,  indeed." 

"But  my  hands  will  be  cold." 

"Oh,  you  have  your  muff.  See  here:  I  want  it,"  he 
said,  "  because  it  seems  so  much  like  yon,  and  you  don't 
know  how  lonesome  I  feel  sometimes." 


348  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Poor  man  !  Angle  thought,  and  she  let  him  have  the 
glove.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  apprehensively,  "  please  don't 
stay  here  now.  I  hear  Miss  Gusher  calling  for  you." 

"  She  is  always  so  busy,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  discon 
tent. 

"  She  is  so  good,"  said  Angie,  "and  does  so  much." 

"  Oh,  yes,  good  enough,"  he  said,  in  a  discontented 
tone,  retreating  backward  into  the  shadow  of  the  hem 
lock,  and  so  finding  his  way  round  into  the  body  of  the 
church. 

But  there  is  no  darkness  or  shadow  of  death  where  a 
handsome,  engaging  young  rector  can  hide  himself  so 
that  the  truth  about  him  will  not  get  into  the  bill  of  some 
bird  of  the  air. 

The  sparrows  of  the  sanctuary  are  many,  and  they  are 
particularly  wide  awake  and  watchful. 

Miss  Gusher  had  been  witness  of  this  last  little  bit  of 
interview;  and,  being  a  woman  of  mature  experience, 
versed  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  had  seen,  as  she  said, 
through  the  whole  matter. 

"  Mr.  St.  John  is  just  like  all  the  rest  of  them,  my 
dear,"  she  said  to  Miss  Vapors,  "  he  will  flirt,  if  a  girl 
will  only  let  him.  I  saw  him  just  now  with  that  Angie 
Van  Arsdel.  Those  Van  Arsdel  girls  are  famous  for 
drawing  in  any  man  they  happen  to  associate  with." 

"  You  don't  say  so,"  said  Miss  Vapors ;  "  what  did 
you  see  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  sha'n't  tell ;  of  course,  I  don't  ap 
prove  of  such  things,  and  it  lowers  Mr.  St.  John  in  my 
esteem, — so  I'd  rather  not  speak  of  it.  I  did  hope  he 
was  above  such  things." 

"  But  do  tell  me,  did  he  say  anything  ?"  said  Miss 
Vapors,  ready  to  burst  in  ignorance. 

"  Oh,  no.  I  only  saw  some  appearances  and  expres 
sions — a  certain  manner  between  them  that  told  all. 


LOVE  IN  CHRISTMAS  GREENS.  349 

Sophronia  Vapors,  you  mark  my  words :  there  is  some 
thing  going  on  between  Angie  Van  Arsdel  and  Mr.  St. 
John.  I  don't  see,  for  my  part,  what  it  is  in  those  Van 
Arsdel  girls  that  the  men  see ;  but,  sure  as  one  of  them 
is  around,  there  is  a  flirtation  got  up." 

"Why,  they're  not  so  very  beautiful,"  said  Miss 
Vapors. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.  I  never  thought  them  even  pretty ; 
but  then,  you  see,  there's  no  accounting  tor  those  things." 

And  so,  while  Mr.  St.  John  and  Angie  were  each  won 
dering  secretly  over  the  amazing  world  of  mutual  under 
standing  that  had  grown  up  between  them,  the  rumor 
was  spreading  and  growing  in  all  the  band  of  Christian 
workers. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

THEREAFTER? 

A  CCORDING  to  the  view  of  the  conventional  world, 
£\.  the  brief,  sudden  little  passage  between  Mr.  St. 
John  and  Angelique  among  the  Christmas-greens  was  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  equivalent  to  an  engagement; 
and  yet,  St.John  had  not  actually  at  that  time  any 
thought  of  marriage. 

*'  Then,"  says  Mrs.  Mater-familias,  ruffling  her  plum 
age,  in  high  moral  style,  "  he  is  a  man  of  no  principle — 
and  acts  abominably."  You  are  wrong,  dear  madam; 
Mr.  St.  John  is  a  man  of  high  principle,  a  man  guided  by 
conscience,  and  who  would  honestly  sooner  die  than  do 
a  wrong  thing. 

"  Well5,  what  does  he  mean  then,  talking  in  this  sort 
of  way  to  Angie,  if  he  has  no  intentions  ?  He  ought  to 
know  better." 

Undoubtedly,  he  ought  to  know  better,  but  he  does 
not.  He  knows  at  present  neither  his  own  heart  nor 
that  of  womankind,  and  is  ignorant  of  the  real  force  and 
meaning  of  what  he  has  been  saying  and  looking,  and  of 
the  obligations  which  they  impose  on  him  as  a  man  of 
honor.  Having  been,  all  his  life,  only  a  recluse  and 
student,  having  planned  his  voyage  of  life  in  a  study, 
where  rocks  and  waves  and  breakers  and  shoals  are  but 
so  many  points  on  paper,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  finds 
himself  somewhat  ignorant  in  actual  navigation,  where 
rocks  and  shoals  are  quite  another  affair.  It  is  one 
thing  to  lay  down  one's  scheme  and  law  of  life  in  a 
study,  among  supposititious  men  and  women,  and  an- 


THEREAFTER?  351 

other  to  carry  it  out  in  life  among  real  ones,  each  one 
of  whom  acts  upon  us  with  the  developing  force  of  sun 
shine  on  the  seed-germ. 

In  fact,  no  man  knows  what  there  is  in  himself  till  he 
has  tried  himself  under  the  influence  of  other  men  ;  and 
if  this  is  true  of  man  over  man,  how  much  more  of  that 
subtle  developing  and  revealing  power  of  woman  over 
man.  St.  John,  during  the  first  part  of  his  life,  had  been 
possessed  by  that  sort  of  distant  fear  of  womankind 
which  a  person  of  acute  sensibility  has  of  that  which  is 
bright,  keen,  dazzling,  and  beyond  his  powers  of  man 
agement,  and  which,  therefore,  seems  to  him  possessed 
of  indefinite  powers  for  mischief.  It  was  something 
with  which  he  felt  unable  to  cope.  He  had,  too,  the 
common  prejudice  against  fashionable  girls  and  women 
as  of  course  wanting  in  earnestness;  and  he  entered 
upon  his  churchly  career  with  a  sort  of  hard  determina 
tion  to  have  no  trifling,  and  to  stand  in  no  relation  to 
this  suspicious  light  guerrilla  force  of  the  church  but 
that  of  a  severe  drill-sergeant. 

To  his  astonishment,  the  child  whom  he  had  under 
taken  to  drill  had  more  than  once  perforce,  and  from 
the  very  power  of  her  womanly  nature,  proved  herself 
competent  to  guide  him  in  many  things  which  belonged 
to  the  very  essence  of  his  profession — church  work. 
Angie  had  been  able  to  enter  places  whence  he  had  been 
excluded ;  able  to  enter  by  those  very  attractions  of  life 
and  gaiety  and  prettiness  which  had  first  led  him  to  set 
her  down  as  unfit  for  serious  work. 

He  saw  with  his  own  eyes  that  a  bright  little  spirit, 
with  twinkling  ornaments,  and  golden  hair,  and  a  sweet 
voice,  could  go  into  the  den  of  John  Price  in  his  surliest 
mood,  could  sing,  and  get  his  children  to  singing,  till  he 
was  as  persuadable  in  her  hands  as  a  bit  of  wax ;  that 
she  could  scold  and  lecture  him  at  her  pleasure,  and  get 


352  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

him  to  making  all  kinds  of  promises ;  in  fact  that  he,  St. 
John  himself,  owed  his  entree  into  the  house,  and  his 
recognition  there  as  a  clergyman,  to  Angie's  good  offices 
and  persistent  entreaties. 

Instead  of  being  leader,  he  was  himself  being  led. 
This  divine  child  was  becoming  to  him  a  mystery  of  wis 
dom  ;  and,  so  far  from  feeling  himself  competent  to  be 
her  instructor,  he  came  to  occupy,  as  regards  many  of  the 
details  of  his  work,  a  most  catechetical  attitude  towards 
her,  and  was  ready  to  accept  almost  anything  she  told 
him. 

St.  John  was,  from  first  to  last,  an  idealist.  It  was 
ideality  that  inclined  him  from  the  barren  and  sterile 
chillness  of  New  England  dogmatism  to  the  picturesque 
forms  and  ceremonies  of  a  warmer  ritual.  His  concep 
tion  of  a  church  was  a  fair  ideal ;  such  as  a  poet  might 
worship,  such  as  this  world  has  never  seen  in  reality,  and 
probably  never  will.  His  conception  of  a  life  work — of 
the  priestly  office,  with  all  that  pertains  to  it — belonged 
to  that  realm  of  poetry  that  is  above  the  matter-of-fact 
truths  of  experience,  and  is  sometimes  in  painful  conflict 
with  them.  What  wonder,  then,  if  love,  the  eternal  poem, 
the  great  ideal  of  ideals,  came  over  him  without  precise 
limits  and  exact  definitions — that  when  the  divine  cloud 
overshadowed  him  he  "wist  not  what  Jie  said." 

St.  John  certainly  never  belonged  to  that  class  of 
clergymen  who,  on  being  assured  of  a  settlement  and  a 
salary,  resolve,  in  a  general  way,  to  marry,  and  look  up  a 
wife  and  a  cooking-stove  at  the  same  time;  who  take 
lists  of  eligible  women,  and  have  the  conditional  refusal 
of  a  house  in  their  pockets,  when  they  go  to  make  pro 
posals. 

In  fact,  he  had  had  some  sort  of  semi-poetical  ideas 
of  a  diviner  life  of  priestly  self-devotion  and  self-conse 
cration,  in  which  woman  can  have  no  part.  He  had 


THEREAFTER?  353 

been  fascinated  by  certain  strains  of  writing  in  some  of 
the  devout  Anglicans  whose  works  furnished  most  of  the 
studies  of  his  library;  so  that  far  from  setting  it  down  in 
a  general  way  that  he  must  some  time  marry,  he  had,  up 
to  this  time,  shaped  his  ideal  of  life  in  a  contrary  direc 
tion.  He  had  taken  no  vows ;  he  had  as  yet  taken  no 
steps  towards  the  practical  working  out  of  any  scheme ; 
but  there  floated  vaguely  through  his  head  the  idea  of 
a  celibate  guild — a  brotherhood  who  should  revive,  in 
dusty  modern  New  York,  some  of  the  devout  conventual 
fervors  of  the  middle  ages.  A  society  of  brothers,  liv 
ing  in  a  round  of  daily  devotions  and  holy  ministration, 
had  been  one  of  the  distant  dreams  of  his  future  cloud- 
land. 

And  now,  for  a  month  or  two,  he  had  been  like  a 
charmed  bird,  fluttering  in  nearer  and  nearer  circles 
about  this  dazzling,  perplexing,  repellent  attraction. 

For  weeks,  unconsciously  to  himself,  he  had  had  but 
one  method  of  marking  and  measuring  his  days :  there 
were  the  days  when  he  expected  to  see  her,  and  the  days 
when  he  did  not;  and  wonderful  days  were  interposed 
between,  when  he*  saw  her  unexpectedly — as,  somehow, 
happened  quite  often. 

We  believe  it  is  a  fact  not  yet  brought  clearly  under 
scientific  investigation  as  to  its  causes,  but  a  fact,  never 
theless,  that  young  people  who  have  fallen  into  the  trick 
of  thinking  about  each  other  when  separated  are  singu 
larly  apt  to  meet  each  other  in  their  daily  walks  and 
ways.  Victor  Hugo  has  written  the  Idyl  of  the  Rue 
Plumette ;  there  are  also  Idyls  of  the  modern  city  of 
New  York.  At  certain  periods  in  the  progress  of  the 
poem,  one  such  chance  glimpse,  or  moment  of  meeting, 
at  a  street  corner  or  on  a  door-step,  is  the  event  of  the 
day. 

St.  John  was  sure  of  Angie  at  her  class  on  Sunday 


354  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

mornings,  and  at  service  afterwards.  He  was  sure  of 
her  on  Thursday  evenings,  at  Eva's  reception  ;  and  then, 
besides,  somehow,  when  she  was  around  looking  up  her 
class  on  Saturday  afternoons,  it  was  so  natural  that  he 
should  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  now  and  then,  coming  out 
of  that  house,  or  going  into  that  door;  and  then,  in  the 
short  days  of  winter,  the  darkness  often  falls  so  rapidly 
that  it  often  struck  him  as  absolutely  necessary  that  he 
should  see  her  safely  home :  and,  in  all  these  moments 
of  association,  he  felt  a  pleasure  so  strange  and  new  and 
divine  that  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  his  whole  life  until  he 
knew  her  had  been  flowerless  and  joyless.  He  pitied 
himself,  when  he  thought  that  he  had  never  known  his 
mother  and  had  never  had  a  sister.  That  must  be  why 
he  had  known  so  little  of  what  it  was  so  lovely  and 
beautiful  to  know. 

Love,  to  an  idealist,  comes  not  first  from  earth,  but 
heaven.  It  comes  as  an  exaltation  of  all  the  higher 
and  nobler  faculties,  and  is  its  own  justification  in  the 
fuller  nobleness,  the  translucent  purity,  the  larger  gen 
erosity,  and  warmer  piety,  it  brings.  The  trees  do  not 
examine  themselves  in  spring-time,  when  every  bud  is 
thrilling  with  a  new  sense  of  life — they  live. 

Never  had  St.  John's  life-work  looked  to  him  so  at 
tractive,  so  possible,  so  full  of  impulse;  and  he  wor 
shiped  the  star  that  had  risen  on  his  darkness,  without 
as  yet  a  thought  of  the  future.  As  yet,  he  thought  of 
her  only  as  a  vision,  an  inspiration,  an  image  of  almost 
childlike  innocence  and  purity,  which  he  represented  to 
himself  under  all  the  poetic  forms  of  saintly  legend. 

She  was  the  St.  Agnes,  the  child  Christian,  the  sacred 
lamb  of  Christ's  fold.  She  was  the  holy  Dorothea,  who 
wore  in  her  bosom  the  roses  of  heaven,  and  had  fruits 
and  flowers  of  Paradise  to  give  to  mortals ;  and  when 
he  left  her,  after  ever  so  brief  an  interview,  he  fancied 


THEREAFTER?  355 

that  one  leaf  from  the  tree  of  life  had  fluttered  to  his 
bosom.  He  illuminated  the  text,  "  Blessed  are  the  pure 
in  heart,"  in  white  lilies,  and  hung  it  over  his  prie 
dieu  in  memorial  of  her,  and  sometimes  caught  himself 
singing : 

"  I  can  but  know  thee  as  my  star, 
My  angel  and  my  dream." 

As  yet,  the  thought  had  not  yet  arisen  in  him  of  ap 
propriating  his  angel  guide.  It  was  enough  to  love  her 
with  the  reverential,  adoring  love  he  gave  to  all  that  was 
holiest  and  purest  within  him,  to  enshrine  her  as  his 
ideal  of  womanhood. 

He  undervalued  himself  in  relation  to  her.  He 
seemed  to  himself  coarse  and  clumsy,  in  the  light  of 
her  intuitions,  as  he  knew  himself  utterly  unskilled  and 
untrained  in  the  conventional  modes  and  usages  of  the 
society  in  which  he  had  begun  to  meet  her,  and  where 
he  saw  her  moving  with  such  deft  ability,  and  touching 
every  spring  with  such  easy  skill. 

Still  he  felt  a  craving  to  be  something  to  her.  Why 
might  she  not  be  a  sister  to  him,  to  him  who  had  never 
known  a  sister  ?  It  was  a  happy  thought,  one  that  struck 
him  as  perfectly  new  and  original,  though  it  was — had 
he  only  known  it — a  well-worn,  mossy  old  mile-stone  that 
had  been  passed  by  generations  on  the  pleasant  journey 
to  Eden.  He  had  not,  however,  had  the  least  intention 
of  saying  a  word  of  this  kind  to  Angie  when  he  came 
to  the  chapel  that  morning.  But  he  liad  been  piqued 
by  her  quiet,  resolute  little  way  of  dissent  from  the  flood 
of  admiration  which  his  illumination  had  excited.  He 
had  been  a  little  dissatisfied  with  the  persistent  adulation 
of  his  flock,  and,  like  Zeuxis,  felt  a  disposition  to  go 
after  the  blush  of  the  maiden  who  fled.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  that  Angie  had  held  her  own  opinion  against 
him,  and  turned  away  with  that  air  of  quiet  resolution 


356  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

which  showed  that  she  had  a  reserved  force  in  herself 
that  he  longed  to  fathom.  Then,  in  the  little  passage 
that  followed,  came  one  of  those  sudden  overflows  that 
Longfellow  tells  of : 

"  There  are  moments  in  life  when  the  heart  is  so  full  of  emotion 
That  if  by  chance  it  be  shaken,  or  into  its  depths  like  a  pebble 
Drops  some  careless  word,  it  overflows,  and  its  secret, 
Spilt  on  the  ground  like  water,  can  never  be  gathered  together." 

St.  John's  secret  looked  out  of  his  eager  eyes ;  and, 
in  fact,  he  was  asking  for  Angie's  whole  heart,  while  his 
words  said  only,  "  love  me  as  a  brother."  A  man,  un 
fortunately,  cannot  look  into  his  own  eyes,  and  does  not 
always  know  what  they  say.  But  a  woman  may  look 
into  them ;  and  Angie,  though  little  in  person  and  child 
like  in  figure,  had  in  her  the  concentrated,  condensed 
essence  of  womanhood — all  its  rapid  foresight ;  its  keen 
flashes  of  intuition ;  its  ready  self-command,  and  some 
thing  of  that  maternal  care-taking  instinct  with  which 
Eve  is  ever  on  the  alert  to  prevent  a  blunder  or  mis 
take  on  the  part  of  the  less  perceiving  Adam. 

She  felt  the  tones  of  his  voice.  She  knew  that  he 
was  saying  more  than  he  was  himself  aware  of,  and  that 
there  were  prying  eyes  about :  and  she  knew,  too,  with  a 
flash  of  presentiment,  what  would  be  the  world's  judg 
ment  of  so  innocent  a  brotherly  and  sisterly  alliance  as 
had  been  proposed  and  sealed  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  glove. 

She  laughed  a  little  to  herself,  fancying  her  brother 
Tom's  wanting  her  glove,  or  addressing  her  in  the  rever 
ential  manner  and  with  the  beseeching  tones  that  she 
had  just  heard.  Certainly  she  would  be  a  sister  to  him, 
she  thought,  and,  the  next  time  she  met  him  at  Eva's 
alone,  she  would  use  her  liberty  to  reprove  him  for  his  im 
prudence  in  speaking  to  her  in  that  way  when  so  many 
were  looking  on.  The  little  empress  knew  her  ground ; 
and  that  it  was  hers  now  to  dictate  and  his  to  obey. 


X 

\ 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


EVA  was  at  the  chapel  that  morning  and  overheard, 
of  the  conversation  between  Miss  Gusher  and  Miss 
Vapors,  just  enough  to  pique  her  curiosity  and  rouse  her 
alarm.  Of  all  things,  she  dreaded  any  such  report  get 
ting  into  the  whirlwind  of  gossip  that  always  eddies 
round  a  church  door  where  there  is  an  interesting,  un 
married  rector,  and  she  resolved  to  caution  Angie  on 
the  very  first  opportunity;  and  so,  when  her  share  of 
wreaths  and  crosses  was  finished,  and  the  afternoon  sun 
began  to  come  level  through  the  stained  windows,  she 
crossed  over  to  Angie 's  side,  to  take  her  home  with  her 
to  dinner. 

"I've  something  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "and  you 
must  come  home  and  stay  with  me  to-night."  And  so 
Angie  came. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Eva,  as  soon  as  the  sisters 
found  themselves  alone  in  her  chamber,  where  they  were 
laying  off  their  things  and  preparing  for  dinner,  "  do  you 
know  that  Miss  Gusher?" 

"I — no,  very  slightly,"  said  Angie,  shaking  out  her 
shawl  to  fold  it.  "She's  a  very  cultivated  woman,  I 
believe." 

"  Well,  I  heard  her  saying  some  disagreeable  things 
about  you  and  Mr.  St.  John  this  morning,"  said  Eva. 

The  blood  flushed  in  Angie's  cheek,  and  she  turned 
quickly  to  the  glass  and  began  arranging  her  hair. 

"What  did  she  say?"  she  inquired. 

"  Something  about  the  Van  Arsdel  girls  always  get 
ting  up  flirtations." 


358  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"Nonsense!  how  hateful!  I'm  sure  it's  no  fault  of 
mine  that  Mr.  St.  John  came  and  spoke  to  me." 

"Then  he  did  come?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  was  perfectly  astonished.  I  was  sitting 
all  alone  in  that  dark  corner  where  the  great  hemlock 
tree  was,  and  the  first  I  knew  he  was  there.  You  see,  I 
criticised  his  illuminated  card — that  one  in  the  strange, 
queer  letters — I  said  I  couldn't  understand  it;  but  Miss 
Gusher,  Miss  Vapors,  and  all  the  girls  were  oh-ing  and 
ah-ing  about  it,  and  I  felt  quite  snubbed  and  put  down. 
I  supposed  it  must  be  my  stupidity,  and  so  I  just  went 
off  to  my  tree  and  sat  down  to  work  quietly  in  the  dark 
corner,  and  left  Miss  Gusher  expatiating  on  mottoes  and 
illuminations.  I  knew  she  was  very  accomplished  and 
clever  and  all  that,  and  that  I  didn't  know  anything 
about  such  things." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Eva,  "he  followed  you?" 

"  Yes,  he  came  suddenly  in  from  the  vestry  behind 
the  tree,  and  I  thought,  or  hoped,  he  stood  so  that  no 
body  noticed  us,  and  he  insisted  on  my  telling  him  why 
I  didn't  like  his  illumination.  I  said  I  did  like  it,  that  I 
thought  it  was  beautifully  done,  but  that  I  did  not  think 
it  would  be  of  any  use  to  those  poor  children  and  folks 
to  have  inscriptions  that  they  didn't  understand ;  and  he 
said  I  was  quite  right,  and  that  he  should  alter  it  and 
put  it  in  plain  English ;  and  then  he  said,  what  a  help  it 
was  to  have  a  woman's  judgment  on  things,  what  a  mis 
fortune  it  was  that  he  had  never  had  a  sister  or  any  friend 
of  that  kind,  and  then  he  asked  me  to  be  a  sister  to  him, 
and  tell  him  frankly  always  just  what  I  thought  of  him, 
and  [  said  I  would.  And  then  " — 

"What  then?" 

"  Oh,  Eva,  I  can't  tell  you;  but  he  spoke  so  earnestly 
and  quick,  and  asked  me  if  I  couldn't  love  him  just  a 
little ;  he  asked  me  to  call  him  Arthur,  and  then,  if  you 


"WE  MUST^BE   CAUTIOUS."  359 

believe  me,  he  would  have  me  give  him  my  glove,  and 
so  I  let  him  take  it,  because  I  was  afraid  some  of  those 
girls  would  see  us  talking  together.  I  felt  almost  fright 
ened  that  he  should  speak  so,  and  I  wanted  him  to  go 
away." 

"  Well,  Angie  dear,  what  do  you  think  of  all  this  ?" 

"  I  know  he  cares  for  me  very  much,"  said  Angie, 
quickly,  "more  than  he  says." 

"  And  you,  Angie  ?" 

"  I  think  he's  good  and  noble  and  true,  and  I  love 
him." 

"  As  a  sister,  of  course,"  said  Eva,  laughing. 

"  Never  mind  how — I  love  him,"  said  Angie ;  "  and  I 
shall  use  my  sisterly  privilege  to  caution  him  to  be  very 
distant  and  dignified  to  me  in  future,  when  those  prying 
eyes  are  around." 

"Well  now,  darling,"  said  Eva,  with  all  the  conscious 
dignity  of  early  matronage,  "we  shall  have  to  manage 
this  matter  very  prudently — for  those  girls  have  had 
their  suspicions  aroused,  and  you  know  how  such  things 
will  fly  through  the  air.  The  fact  is,  there  is  nothing  so 
perplexing  as  just  this  state  of  things ;  when  you  know 
as  well  as  you  know  anything  that  a  man  is  in  love  with 
you,  and  yet  you  are  not  engaged  to  him.  I  know  all 
about  the  trouble  of  that,  I'm  sure;  and  it  seems  to  me, 
what  with  Mamma,  Aunt  Maria,  and  all  the  rest  of  them, 
it  was  a  perfect  marvel  how  Harry  and  I  ever  came  to 
gether.  Now,  there's  that  Miss  Gusher,  she'll  be  on  the 
watch  all  the  time,  like  a  cat  at  a  mouse-hole ;  and  she's 
going  to  be  there  when  we  get  the  Christmas-tree  ready 
and  tie  on  the  things,  and  you  must  manage  to  keep  as 
far  off  from  him  as  possible.  I  shall  be  there,  and  I 
shall  have  my  eyes  in  my  head,  I  promise  you.  We  must 
try  to  lull  their  suspicions  to  sleep." 

"Dear  me,"  said  Angie,  "  how  disagreeable  !" 


360  -WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  you,  darling,  but  I've  kept  it  off  as 
long  as  I  could ;  I've  seen  for  a  long  time  how  things  are 
going." 

"You  have?     Oh,  Eva!" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  have  had  all  I  could  do  to  keep  Jim 
Fellows  from  talking,  and  teasing  you,  as  he  has  been 
perfectly  longing  to  do  for  a  month  past." 

"You  don't  say  that  Jim  has  noticed  anything?" 

"  Yes,  Jim  noticed  his  looking  at  you,  the  very  first 
thing  after  he  came  to  Sunday-school." 

"  Well,  now,  at  first  I  noticed  that  he  looked  at  me 
often,  but  I  thought  it  was  because  he  saw  something  he 
disapproved  of — and  it  used  to  embarrass  me.  Then  I 
thought  he  seemed  to  avoid  me,  and  I  wondered  why. 
And  I  wondered,  too,  why  he  always  would  take  occasion 
to  look  at  me.  I  noticed,  when  your  evenings  first  be 
gan,  that  he  never  came  near  me,  and  never  spoke  to 
me,  and  yet  his  eyes  were  following  me  wherever  I  went. 
The  first  evening  you  had,  he  walked  round  and  round 
me  nearly  the  whole  evening,  and  never  spoke  a  word ; 
then  suddenly  he  came  and  sat  down  by  me,  when  I 
was  sitting  by  Mrs.  Betsey,  and  gave  me  a  message  from 
the  Prices;  but  he  spoke  in  such  a  stiff,  embarrassed 
way,  and  then  there  was  an  awful  pause,  and  suddenly  he 
got  up  and  went  away  again ;  and  poor  little  Mrs.  Betsey 
said,  *  Bless  me,  how  stiff  and  ungracious  he  is ';  and  I 
said  that  I  believed  he  wasn't  much  used  to  society — 
but,  after  a  while,  this  wore  away,  and  he  became  very 
social,  and  we  grew  better  and  better  acquainted  all  the 
time.  Although  I  was  a  little  contradictious,  and  used 
to  controvert  some  of  his  notions,  I  fancy  it  was  rather  a 
novelty  to  him  to  find  somebody  that  didn't  always  give 
up  to  him,  for,  I  must  say,  some  of  the  women  that  go  to 
our  chapel  do  make  fools  of  themselves  about  him.  It 
really  provokes  me  past  all  bearing.  If  any  body  could 


"WE  MUST  BE  CAUTIOUS."  361 

set  me  against  a  man,  it  would  be  those  silly,  admiring 
women  who  have  their  hands  and  eyes  always  raised  in 
adoration,  whatever  he  does.  It  annoys  him,  I  can  see, 
for  it  is  very  much  against  his  taste,  and  he  likes  me  be 
cause,  he  says,  I  always  will  tell  him  the  truth." 


Meanwhile  St.  John  had  gone  back  to  his  study, 
walking  as  on  a  cloud.  The  sunshine  streaming  into  a 
western  window  touched  the  white  lilies  over  his  prie 
dieu  till  they  seemed  alive.  He  took  down  the  illumi 
nation  and  looked  at  it.  He  had  a  great  mind  to  give 
this  to  her  as  a  Christmas  present.  Why  not  ?  Was  she 
not  to  be  his  own  sister?  And  his  thoughts  strolled 
along  through  pleasant  possibilities  and  all  the  privi 
leges  of  a  brother.  Certainly,  he  longed  to  see  her  now, 
and  talk  them  over  with  her ;  and  suddenly  it  occurred 
to  him  that  there  were  a  few  points  in  relation  to  the 
arrangement  of  the  tree  about  which  it  would  be  abso 
lutely  necessary  to  get  the  opinion  of  Mrs.  Henderson. 
Whether  this  direction  of  the  path  of  duty  had  any  rela 
tion  to  the  fact  that  he  had  last  seen  her  going  away 
from  the  vestry  arm  in  arm  with  Angie,  we  will  not 
assume  to  say ;  but  the  solemn  fact  was  that,  that  even 
ing,  just  as  it  came  time  to  drop  the  lace  curtains  over 
the  Henderson  windows,  when  the  blazing  wood  fire  was 
winking  and  blinking  roguishly  at  the  brass  audirons, 
the  door-bell  rang,  and  in  he  walked. 

Angelique  had  her  lap  full  of  dolls,  and  was  sitting 
like  Iris  in  the  rainbow,  in  a  confused  melange  of  silks, 
and  gauzes,  and  tissues,  and  spangles.  Three  dressed 
dolls  were  propped  up  in  various  attitudes  around  her, 
and  she  was  holding  the  fourth,  while  she  fitted  a  sky-blue 
mantilla  which  she  was  going  to  trim  with  silver  braid. 
Where  Angie  got  all  her  budget  of  fineries  was  a  stand- 
Q 


362  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

ing  mystery  in  the  household,  only  that  she  had  an  in 
finitely  persuasive  tongue,  and  talked  supplies  out  of 
admiring  clerks  and  milliners'  apprentices.  It  was  a 
pretty  picture  to  see  her  there  in  the  warm,  glowing 
room,  tossing  and  turning  her  filmy  treasures,  and  cock 
ing  her  little  head  on  one  side  and  the  other  with  an  air 
of  profound  reflection. 

Harry  was  gone  out.  Eva  was  knitting  a  comforter 
in  her  corner,  and  everything  was  as  still  and  as  cosy  as 
heart  could  desire,  when  St.  John  made  his  way  into  the 
parlor  and  got  himself  warmly  ensconced  in  his  favorite 
niche.  What  more  could  mortal  man  desire  ?  He 
talked  gravely  with  Eva,  and  watched  Angie.  He  thought 
of  a  lean,  haggard  picture  of  a  St.  Mary  of  Egypt,  pray 
ing  forlornly  in  the  desert,  that  had  hitherto  stood  in  his 
study,  and  the  idea  somehow  came  over  him  that  modern 
New  York  saints  had  taken  a  much  more  agreeable  turn 
than  those  of  old.  Was  it  not  better  to  be  dressing 
dolls  for  poor  children  than  to  be  rolling  up  one's  eyes 
and  praying  alone  out  in  a  desert?  In  his  own  mind 
he  resolved  to  take  down  that  picture  forthwith.  He 
had,  in  his  overcoat  in  the  hall,  his  illuminated  lilies, 
wrapped  snugly  in  tissue  paper  and  tied  with  a  blue  rib 
bon  ;  and,  all  the  while  he  was  discoursing  with  Eva,  he 
was  ruminating  how  he  could  see  Angie  alone  a  minute, 
just  long  enough  to  place  it  in  her  hands.  Surely, 
somebody  ought  to  make  her  a  Christmas  present,  she 
who  was  thinking  of  every  one  but  herself. 

Eva  was  one  of  the  class  of  diviners,  and  not  at  all 
the  person  to  sit  as  Madame  de  Trop  in  an  exigency  of 
this  sort,  and  so  she  had  a  sudden  call  to  consult  with 
Mary  in  the  kitchen. 

"Now  for  it,"  thought  St.  John,  as  he  rose  and  drew 
nearer.  Angie  looked  up  with  a  demure  conscious 
ness. 


"WE  MUST  BE   CAUTIOUS."  363 

He  began  fingering  her  gauzes  and  her  scissors  un 
consciously. 

"  Now,  now !  I  don't  allow  that,"  she  said,  playfully, 
as  she  took  them  altogether  from  his  hand. 

"  I  have  something  for  you,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"Something  for  me!"  with  a  bright,  amused  look. 
"Where  is  it?" 

St.  John  fumbled  a  moment  in  the  entry  and  brought 
in  his  parcel.  Angie  watched  him  untying  it  with  a  kit 
tenish  gravity.  He  laid  it  down  before  her.  "From 
your  brother,  Angie,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  how  lovely !  how  beautiful !  O  Mr.  St.  John, 
did  you  do  this  for  me?" 

"  It  was  of  you  I  was  thinking  ;  you,  my  inspiration 
in  all  that  is  holy  and  good ;  you  who  strengthen  and 
help  me  in  all  that  is  pure  and  heavenly." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that!" 

"  It's  true,  Angie,  my  Angie,  my  angel.  I  knew  noth 
ing  worthily  till  I  knew  you." 

Angie  looked  up  at  him ;  her  eyes,  clear  and  bright 
as  a  bird's,  looked  into  his ;  their  hands  clasped  together, 
and  then,  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  he 
kissed  her. 

"But,  Arthur,"  said  Angie,  "you  must  be  careful  not 
to  arouse  disagreeable  reports  and  gossip.  What  is  so 
sacred  between  us  must  not  be  talked  of.  Don't  look  at 
me,  or  speak  to  me,  when  others  are  present.  You  don't 
know  how  very  easy  it  is  to  make  people  talk." 

Mr.  St.  John  promised  all  manner  of  prudence,  and 
walked  home  delighted.  And  thus  these  two  Babes  in 
the  Wood  clasped  hands  with  each  other,  to  wander  up 
and  down  the  great  forest  of  life,  as  simply  and  sincerely 
as  if  they  had  been  Hensel  and  Grettel  in  the  fairy  story. 
They  loved  each  other,  wholly  trusted  each  other  without 
a  question,  and  were  walking  in  dream-land.  There  was 


364  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

no  question  of  marriage  settlements,  or  rent  and  taxes ; 
only  a  joyous  delight  that  they  two  in  this  wilderness 
world  had  found  each  other. 

We  pity  him  who  does  not  know  that  there  is  nothing 

purer,  nothing  nearer  heaven  than  a  young  man's  first- 

.  enkindled  veneration  and  adoration  of  womanhood  in 

the  person  of  her  who  is  to  be  his  life's  ideal.     It  is  the 

morning  dew  before  the  sun  arises. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

SAYS   SHE    TO    HER   NEIGHBOR  —  WHAT? 


"  1\  /T^  dear,"  sa-id  Mrs-  ^r-  Gracey  to  her  spouse,  "I 
1VJ.  have  a  great  piece  of  news  for  you  about  Arthur 
—  they  say  that  he  is  engaged  to  one  of  the  Van  Arsdel 
girls." 

"  Good,"  said  the  Doctor,  pushing  up  his  spectacles. 
"It's  the  most  sensible  thing  I  have  heard  of  him  this 
long  while.  I  always  knew  that  boy  would  come  right 
if  he  were  only  let  alone.  How  did  you  hear?" 

"  Miss  Gusher  told  Mary  Jane.  She  charged  her  not 
to  tell  ;  but,  oh,  it's  all  over  town  !  There  can  be  no  doubt 
about  it." 

"  Why  hasn't  he  been  here,  then,  like  a  dutiful  neph 
ew,  to  tell  us,  I  should  like  to  know?"  said  Dr.  Gracey. 

"Well,  I  believe  they  say  it  isn't  announced  yet;  but 
there's  no  sort  of  doubt  of  it.  There's  no  doubt,  at  any 
rate,  that  there's  been  a  very  decided  intimacy,  and  that 
if  they  are  not  engaged,  they  ought  to  be  ;  and  as  I  know 
Arthur  is  a  good  fellow,  I  know  it  must  be  all  right. 
Those  Ritualistic  young  ladies  are  terribly  shocked. 
Miss  Gusher  says  that  her  idol  is  broken  ;  that  she  never 
again  shall  reverence  a  clergyman." 

"  Very  likely,  A  Mrs.  St.  John  will  be  a  great  inter 
ruption  in  the  way  of  holy  confidences  and  confessionals, 
and  all  their  trumpery  ;  but  it's  the  one  thing  needful  for 
Arthur.  A  good,  sensible  woman  for  a  wife  will  make 
him  a  capital  worker.  The  best  adviser  in  church  work 
is  a  good  wife  ;  and  the  best  school  of  the  church  is  a 
Christian  family.  That's  my  doctrine,  Mrs.  G." 


360  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Mrs.  G.  blushed  at  the  implied  compliment,  while  the 
Doctor  went  on : 

"  Now,  I  never  felt  the  least  fear  of  how  Arthur  was 
coming  out,  and  I  take  great  credit  to  myself  for  not 
opposing  him.  I  knew  a  young  man  must  do  a  certain 
amount  of  fussing  and  fizzling  before  he  settles  down 
strong  and  clear;  and  fighting  and  opposing  a  crotch 
ety  fellow  does  no  good.  I  think  I  have  kept  hold 
on  Arthur  by  never  rousing  his  combativeness  and 
being  sparing  of  good  advice ;  and  you  see  he  is  turning 
right  already.  A  wife  will  put  an  end  to  all  the  semi- 
monkish  trumpery  that  has  got  itself  mixed  up  with  his 
real  self-denying  labor.  A  woman  is  capital  for  sweep 
ing  down  cobwebs  in  Church  or  State.  Well,  I  shall  call 
on  Arthur  and  congratulate  him  forthwith." 

Dr.  Gracey  was  Arthur's  maternal  uncle,  and  he  had 
always  kept  an  eye  upon  him  from  boyhood,  as  the  only 
son  of  a  favorite  sister. 

The  Doctor,  himself  rector  of  a  large  and  thriving 
church,  was  a  fair  representative  of  that  exact  mixture 
of  conservatism  and  progress  which  characterizes  the 
great,  steady  middle  class  of  the  American  Episcopacy. 
He  was  tolerant  and  fatherly  both  to  the  Ritualists,  who 
overdo  on  one  side,  and  the  Low  Church,  who  underdo 
on  the  other.  He  believed  largely  in  good  nature,  good 
sense,  and  the  expectant  treatment,  as  best  for  diseases 
both  in  the  churchly  and  medical  practice. 

So,  when  he  had  succeeded  in  converting  his  favorite 
nephew  to  Episcopacy,  and  found  him  in  danger  of  using 
it  only  as  a  half-way  house  to  Rome,  he  took  good  heed 
neither  to  snub  him,  nor  to  sneer  at  him,  but  to  give 
him  sympathy  in  all  the  good  work  he  did,  and,  as  far  as 
possible,  to  shield  him  from  that  species  of  persecution 
which  is  sure  to  endear  a  man's  errors  to  him,  by  invest 
ing  them  with  a  kind  of  pathos. 


SAYS  SHE    TO  HER  NEIGHBOR— WHAT?      367 

"  The  world  isn't  in  danger  from  the  multitudes  rush 
ing  into  extremes  of  self-sacrifice,"  the  Doctor  said,  when 
his  wife  feared  that  Arthur  was  becoming  an  ascetic. 
"  Keep  him  at  work ;  work  will  bring  sense  and  steadi 
ness.  Give  him  his  head,  and  he'll  pull  in  harne*ss  all 
right  by  and  by.  A  colt  that  don't  kick  out  of  the 
traces  a  little,  at  first,  can't  have  much  blood  in 
him." 

It  will  be  seen  by  the  subject-matter  of  this  conver 
sation  that  the  good  seed  which  had  been  sown  in  the 
heart  of  Miss  Gusher  had  sprung  up  and  borne  fruit — 
thirty,  sixty  and  a  hundred  fold,  as  is  the  wont  of  the 
gourds  of  gossip, — more  rapid  by  half  in  their  growth 
than  the  gourd  of  Jonah,  and  not  half  as  consolatory. 

In  fact,  the  gossip  plant  is  like  the  grain  of  mustard 
seed,  which,  though  it  be  the  least  of  all  seeds,  becom- 
eth  a  great  tree,  and  the  fowls  of  the  air  lodge  in  its 
branches  and  chatter  mightily  there  at  all  seasons. 

Miss  Gusher,  and  Miss  Vapors,  and  Miss  Rapture, 
and  old  Mrs.  Eyelet,  and  the  Misses  Glibbett,  so  well 
employed  their  time,  about  the  season  of  Christmas,  that 
there  was  not  a  female  person  in  the  limits  of  their 
acquaintance  that  had  not  had  the  whole  story  of  all 
that  had  been  seen,  surmised,  or  imagined,  related  as  a 
profound  secret.  Notes  were  collected  and  compared. 
Mrs.  Eyelet  remembered  that  she  had  twice  seen  Mr. 
St.  John  attending  Angie  to  her  door  about  nightfall. 
Miss  Sykes,  visiting  one  afternoon  in  the  same  district, 
deposed  and  said  that  she  had  met  them  coming  out  of  a 
door  together.  She  was  quite  sure  that  they  must  have 
met  by  appointment.  Then,  oh,  the  depths  of  possibility 
that  the  gossips  saw  in  that  Henderson  house  !  Always 
there,  every  Thursday  evening !  On  intimate  terms  with 
the  family. 

"  Depend  upon  it,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Eyelet,  "  Mrs. 


368  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Henderson  has  been  doing  all  she  could  to  catch  him. 
They  say  he's  at  her  house  almost  constantly." 

Aunt  Maria's  plumage  rustled  with  maternal  solici- 
tude.t  "  I  don't  know  but  it  is  as  good  a  thing  as  we 
could  expect  for  Angie,"  said  she  to  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel. 
"  He's  a  young  man  of  good  family  and  independent 
property.  I  don't  like  his  ritualistic  notions,  to  be  sure; 
but  one  can't  have  everything.  And,  at  any  rate,  he 
can't  become  a  Roman  Catholic  if  he  gets  married — 
that's  one  comfort." 

"There  he  goes!"  said  little  Mrs.  Betsey,  as  she  sat 
looking  through  the  blinds,  with  the  forgiven  Jack  on 
her  knee.  "  He's  at  the  door  now.  Dorcas,  I  do  believe 
there's  something  in  it." 

"  Something  in  what  ?"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  "  and  who 
are  you  talking  about,  Betsey?" 

"  Why,  Mr.  St.  John  and  Angie.  He's  standing  at 
the  door,  this  very  minute.  It  must  be  true.  I'm  glad 
of  it;  only  he  isn't  half  good  enough  for  her." 

"  Well,  it  don't  follow  that  there  is  an  engagement  be 
cause  Mr.  St.  John  is  at  the  door,"  said  Miss  Dorcas. 

"But  all  the  things  Mrs.  Eyelet  said,  Dorcas!" 

"Mrs.  Eyelet  is  a  gossip,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  shortly. 

"  But,  Dorcas,  I  really  thought  his  manner  to  her  last 
Thursday  was  particular.  Oh,  I'm  sure  there's  some 
thing  in  it!  They  say  he's  such  a  good  young  man,  and 
independently  rich,  I  wonder  if  they'll  take  a  house  up 
in  this  neighborhood?  It  would  be  so  nice  to  have 
Angie  within  calling  distance !  A  great  favorite  of  mine 
is  Angie." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE  ENGAGEMENT  ANNOUNCED. 

MEANWHILE  Dr.  Gracey  found  his  way  to  Arthur's 
study. 

"  So,  Arthur,"  he  said,  "  that  pretty  Miss  Van  Arsdel's 
engaged." 

The  blank  expression  and  sudden  change  of  color  in 
St.  John's  face  was  something  quite  worthy  of  observa 
tion. 

"Miss  Van  Arsdel  engaged!"  he  repeated  with  a 
gasp,  feeling  as  if  the  ground  were  going  down  under 
him. 

"  Yes,  that  pretty  fairy,  Miss  Angelique,  you  know." 

"  How  did  you  hear — who  told  you  ?" 

*4  How  did  I  hear?  Why,  it's  all  over  town.  Arthur, 
you  bad  boy,  why  haven \you  told  me?" 

"Me?" 

"Yes,  you;  you  are  the  happy  individual.  I  came 
to  congratulate  you." 

St.  John  looked  terribly  confused. 

"Well,  we  are  not  really  exactly  engaged." 

"  But  you  are  going  to  be,  I  understand.  So  far  so 
good.  I  like  the  family — good  stock — nothing  could  be 
better;  but,  Arthur,  let  me  tell  you,  you'd  better  have  it 
announced  and  above  board  forthwith.  You  are  not  my 
sister's  son,  nor  the  man  I  took  you  for,  if  you  could 
take  advantage  of  the  confidence  inspired  by  your  posi 
tion  to  carry  on  a  flirtation." 

The  blood  flushed  into  St.  John's  cheeks. 

"I'm  not  flirting,  uncle;  that  vulgar  word  is  no  name 


370  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

for  my  friendship  with  Miss  Van  Arsdel.  It  is  as  sacred 
as  the  altar.  I  reverence  her,  I  love  her  with  all  my 
heart.  I  would  lay  down  my  life  for  her." 

"  Good  !  but  nobody  wants  you  to  lay  down  your  life. 
That  is  quite  foreign  to  the  purpose,  What  is  wanting 
is,  that  you  step  out  like  a  man  and  define  your  position 
with  regard  to  Miss  Van  Arsdel  before  the  world ;  other 
wise  all  the  gossips  will  make  free  with  her  name  and 
yours.  Depend  upon  it,  Arthur,  a  man  has  done  too 
much  or  too  little  when  a  young  lady's  name  is  in  every 
one's  mouth  in  connection  with  his,  without  a  definite 
engagement." 

"  It  is  all  my  fault,  uncle.  I  hadn't  the  remotest 
idea.  It's  all  my  fault — all.  I  had  no  thought  of  what 
the  world  would  say ;  no  idea  that  we  were  remarked — 
but,  believe  me,  our  intimacy  has  been,  from  first  to  last, 
entirely  of  my  seeking.  It  has  grown  on  us  gradually, 
till  I  find  she  is  more  to  me  than  any  one  ever  has  been 
or  can  be.  Whether  I  am  as  much  to  her,  I  cannot  tell. 
My  demands  have  been  humble.  We  are  not  engaged, 
but  it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  another  day  passes  and  we 
are  not." 

"  Right,  my  boy.  I  knew  you.  You  were  no  nephew 
of  mine  if  you  didn't  feel,  when  your  eyes  were  open, 
the  honor  of  the  thing.  God  made  you  a  gentleman 
before  he  made  you  a  priest,  and  there's  but  one  way  for 
a  gentleman  in  a  case  like  this.  If  there's  anything  I 
despise,  it's  a  priest  who  uses  his  priestly  influence, 
under  this  fine  name  and  that,  to  steal  from  a  woman  love 
that  doesn't  belong  to  him,  and  that  he  never  can  return, 
and  never  ought  to.  If  a  man  thinks  he  can  do  more 
good  as  a  single  man  and  a  missionary,  well ;  I  honor 
him,  but  let  him  make  the  sacrifice  honestly.  Don't 
let  him  want  pretty  girls  for  intimate  friends  or  guardian 
angels,  or  Christian  sisters,  or  any  such  trumpery.  It's 


THE  ENGAGEMENT  ANNOUNCED.  371 

dishonest  and  disloyal;  it  is  unfair  to  the  woman  and 
selfish  in  the  man." 

"Well,  uncle,  I  trust  you  say  all  this  because  you 
don't  think  it  of  me ;  as  I  know  my  heart  before  God,  I 
say  I  have  not  been  doing  so  mean  and  cowardly  a 
thing  There  was  a  time  when  I  thought  I  never  should 
marry.  Those  were  my  days  of  ignorance.  I  did  not 
know  how  much  a  true  woman  might  teach  me,  and  how 
much  I  needed  such  a  guide,  even  in  my  church  work." 

"  In  short,  my  boy,  you  found  out  that  the  Lord  was 
right  when  he  said,  'It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone.' 
We  pay  the  Lord  the  compliment  once  in  a  while  to  be 
lieve  he  knows  best.  Depend  on  it,  Arthur,  that  Chris 
tian  families  are  the  Lord's  church,  and  better  than  any 
guild  of  monks  and  nuns  whatsoever." 

All  which  was  listened  to  by  Mr.  St.  John  with  a  ra 
diant  countenance.  It  is  all  down-hill  when  you  are 
showing  a  man  that  it  is  his  duty  to  do  what  he  wants  to 
do.  Six  months  before,  St.  John  would  have  fought 
every  proposition  of  this  speech,  and  brought  up  the 
whole  of  the  Middle  Ages  to  back  him.  Now,  he  was 
as  tractable  as  heart  could  wish. 

"After  all,  Uncle,"  he  said,  at  last,  "what  if  she  will 
not  have  me  ?  And  what  if  I  am  not  the  man  to  make 
her  happy?" 

"  Oh,  if  you  ask  prettily,  I  fancy  she  won't  say  nay ; 
and  then  you  must  make  her  happy.  There  are  no  two 
ways  about  that,  my  boye " 

"  I'm  not  half  good  enough  for  her,"  said  St.  John. 

"  Like  enough.  We  are  none  of  us  good  enough  for 
these  women ;  but,  luckily,  that  isn't  apt  to  be  their 
opinion." 

St.  John  started  out  from  the  conference  with  an  alert 
step.  In  two  days  more,  rumor  was  met  with  open  con 
firmation.  St.  John  had  had  the  decisive  interview  with 


372  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Angie,  had  seen  and  talked  with  her  father  and  mother, 
and  been  invited  to  a  family  dinner ;  and  Angie  wore  on 
her  finger  an  engagement-ring.  There  was  no  more  to 
be  said  now.  Mr.  St.  John  was  an  idol  who  had  stepped 
down  from  his  pedestal  into  the  ranks  of  common  men. 
He  was  no  longer  a  mysterious  power — an  angel  of  the 
churches,  but  a  man  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Never 
theless,  it  is  an  undoubted  fact  that,  for  all  the  purposes 
of  this  mortal  life,  a  good  man  is  better  than  an  angel. 

But  not  so  thought  the  ecstasia  of  his  chapel.  A 
holy  father,  in  a  long  black  gown,  with  a  cord  round  his 
waist,  and  with  a  skull  and  hour-glass  in  his  cell,  is  some 
how  thought  to  be  nearer  to  heaven  than  a  family  man 
with  a  market-basket  on  his  arm  ;  but  we  question 
whether  the  angels  themselves  think  so.  There  may  be 
as  holy  and  unselfish  a  spirit  in  the  way  a  market-basket 
is  filled  as  in  a  week  of  fasting;  and  the  oil  of  gladness 
may  make  the  heavenward  wheels  run  more  smoothly 
than  the  spirit  of  heaviness.  The  first  bright  day,  St. 
John  took  Angie  a  drive  in  the  park,  a  proceeding  so 
evidently  of  the  earth,  earthy,  that  Miss  Gusher  hid  her 
face,  after  the  manner  of  the  seraphim,  as  he  passed ;  but 
he  and  Angie  were  too  happy  and  too  busy  in  their  new 
world  to  care  who  looked  or  who  didn't,  and  St.  John 
rather  triumphantly  remembered  the  free  assertion  of  the 
great  apostle,  "  Have  we  not  power  to  lead  about  a  sister 
or  a  wife?"  and  felt  sure  that  he  should  have  been  proud 
and  happy  to  show  Angie  to  St.  Paul  himself. 

Alice  was  at  first  slightly  disappointed,  but  the  com 
pensation  of  receiving  so  very  desirable  a  brother-in- 
law  reconciled  her  to  the  loss  of  her  poetic  and  distant 
ideal. 

As  to  little  Mrs.  Betsey,  she  fell  upon  Angie's  neck 
in  rapture;  and  her  joy  was  heightened  in  the  convincing 
proof  that  she  was  now  able  to  heap  upon  the  unbeliev- 


THE  ENGAGEMENT  ANNOUNCED.  373 

ing  head  of  Dorcas  that  she  had  been  in  the  right  all 
along. 

When  dear  little  Mrs.  Betsey  was  excited,  her  words 
and  thoughts  came  so  thick  that  they  were  like  a  flock 
of  martins,  all  trying  to  get  out  of  a  martin-box  together, 
— chattering,  twittering,  stumbling  over  each  other,  and 
coming  out  at  heads  and  points  in  a  wonderful  order. 
When  the  news  had  been  officially  sealed  to  her,  she 
begged  the  right  to  carry  it  to  Dorcas,  and  ran  home  and 
burst  in  upon  her  with  shining  eyes  and  two  little  pink 
spots  in  her  cheeks. 

"  There,  Dorcas,  they  are  engaged.  Now,  didnt  I  say 
so,  Dorcas?  I  knew  it.  I  told  you  so,  that  Thursday 
evening.  Oh,  you  can't  fool  me ;  and  that  day  I  saw  him 
standing  on  the  doorstep  !  I  was  just  as  certain !  I  saw 
it  just  as  plain  !  What  a  shame  for  people  to  talk  about 
him  as  they  do,  and  say  he's  going  to  Rome.  I  wonder 
what  they  think  now  ?  The  sweetest  girl  in  New  York, 
certainly.  Oh  !  and  that  ring  he  bought !  Just  as  if  he 
could  be  a  Roman  Catholic !  It's  big  as  a  pea,  and 
sparkles  beautiful,  and's  got  the  'Lord  is  thy  keeper'  in 
Hebrew  on  the  inside.  I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Wouvermans 
and  ask  her  what  she  thinks  now.  Oh,  and  he  took  her 
to  ride  in  such  a  stylish  carriage,  white  lynx  lap-robe,  and 
all !  I  don't  care  if  he  does  burn  candles  in  his  chapel. 
What  does  that  prove  ?  It  don't  prove  anything.  I  like 
to  see  people  have  some  logic  about  things,  for  my  part, 
don't  you,  Dorcas?  Don't  you  ?" 

"  Mercy !  yes,  Betsey,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  delighted 
to  see  her  sister  so  excitedly  happy,  "though  I  don't 
exactly  see  my  way  clear  through  yours;  but  no  matter." 

"I'm  going  to  crochet  a  toilet  cushion  for  a  wedding 
present,  Dorcas,  like  that  one  in  the  red  room,  you  know. 
I  wonder  when  it  will  come  off?  How  lucky  I  have  that 
sweet  cap  that  Mrs.  Henderson  made.  Wasn't  it  good 


374  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

of  her  to  make  it  ?  I  hope  they'll  invite  us.  Don't  you 
think  they  will  ?  I  suppose  it  will  be  in  his  chapel,  with 
candles  and  all  sorts  of  new  ways.  Well,  I  don't  care, 
so  long  as  folks  are  good  people,  what  their  ways  are ;  do 
you,  Dorcas  ?  I  must  run  up  and  count  the  stitches  on 
that  cushion  this  minute  !"  And  Mrs.  Betsey  upset  her 
basket  of  worsteds  in  her  zeal,  and  Jack  flew  round  and 
round,  barking  sympathetically.  In  fact,  he  was  so 
excited  by  the  general  breeze  that  he  chewed  up  two 
balls  of  worsted  before  recovering  his  composure.  Such 
was  the  effect  of  the  news  at  the  old  Vanderheyden 
house. 


CHAPTER  XZ7. 

LETTER    FROM    EVA    TO    HARRY'S   MOTHER. 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER  :  I  sit  down  to  write  to  you  with 
a  heart  full  of  the  strangest  feelings  and  experi- 
riences.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  out  in  some  other 
world  and  been  brought  back  again ;  and  now  I  hardly 
know  myself  or  where  I  am.  You  know  I  wrote  you  all 
about  Maggie,  and  her  leaving  us,  and  poor  Mary's 
trouble  about  her,  and  how  she  had  been  since  seen  in  a 
very  bad  neighborhood:  I  promised  Mary  faithfully  that 
I  would  go  after  her;  and  so,  after  all  our  Christmas 
labors  were  over,  Harry  and  I  went  on  a  midnight  ex 
cursion  with  Mr.  James,  the  Methodist  minister,  who  has 
started  the  mission  there. 

It  seemed  to  me  very  strange  that  a  minister  could 
have  access  to  all  those  places  where  he  proposed  to 
take  us,  and  see  all  that  was  going  on  without  insult  or 
danger  but  he  told  me  that  he  was  in  the  constant 
habit  of  passing  through  the  dance-houses,  and  talking 
with  the  people  who  kept  them,  and  that  he  had  never 
met  with  any  rudeness  or  incivility. 

He  told  us  that  in  the  very  center  of  this  worst  dis 
trict  of  New  York,  among  drinking  saloons  and  dance-  • 
houses,  a  few  Christian  people  had  bought  a  house  in 
which  they  had  established  a  mission  family,  with  a  room 
which  they  use  for  a  chapel ;  and  they  hold  weekly 
prayer-meetings,  and  seek  to  draw  in  the  wretched  peo 
ple  there. 

On  this  evening,  he  said,  they  were  about  to  give  a 
midnight  supper  at  the  Home  to  any  poor  houseless  wan- 


376  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

derer  whom  they  could  find  in  those  wretched  streets,  or 
who  hung  about  the  drinking-saloons. 

"  Our  only  hope  in  this  mission,"  he  said,  "  is  to 
make  these  wretched  people  feel  that  we  really  are  their 
friends  and  seek  their  go6*d ;  and,  in  order  to  do  this,  we 
must  do  something  for  them  that  they  can  understand. 
They  can  all  understand  a  good  supper,  when  they  are 
lying  about  cold  and  hungry  and  homeless,  on  a  stinging 
cold  night  like  this;  and  we  don't  begin  to  talk  to 
them  till  we  have  warmed  and  fed  them.  It  surprises 
them  to  have  us  take  all  this  trouble  to  do  them  good ; 
it  awakens  their  curiosity;  they  wonder  what  we  do  it 
for,  and  then,  when  we  tell  them  it  is  because  we  are 
Christians,  and  love  them,  and  want  to  save  them,  they 
believe  us.  After  that,  they  are  willing  to  come  to  our 
meetings,  and  attend  to  what  we  say." 

Now,  this  seemed  to  me  good  philosophy,  but  I  could 
not  help  saying :  "  Dear  Mr.  James,  how  could  you  have 
the  courage  to  begin  a  mission  in  such  a  dreadful  place; 
and  how  can  you  have  any  hope  of  saving  such  people?" 
And  he  answered :  With  God,  all  things  are  possible. 
That  was  what  Christ  came  for — to  seek  and  save  the 
lost.  The  Good  Shepherd,"  he  said,  "  leaves  the  ninety 
and  nine  safe  sheep  in  the  fold,  and  goes  after  one  that 
is  lost  until  he  finds  it"  I  asked  him  who  supported 
the  Home,  and  he  said  it  was  supported  by  God,  in 
answer  to  prayer;  that  they  made  no  public  solicitation; 
had  nobody  pledged  to  help  them;  but  that  contribu 
tions  were  constantly  coming  in  from  one  Christian 
person  or  another,  as  they  needed  thetn ;  that  the  super 
intendent  and  matron  of  the  Home  had  no  stated  salary, 
and  devoted  themselves  to  the  work  in  the  same  faith 
that  the  food  and  raiment  needed  would  be  found  for 
them ;  and  so  far  it  had  not  failed. 

All  this  seemed  very  strange  to  me.     It  seemed  a 


EVA    TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.  377 

sort  of  literal  rendering  of  some  of  the  things  in  the 
Bible  that  we  pass  over  as  having  no  very  definite  mean 
ing.  Mr.  James  seemed  so  quiet,  so  assured,  so  calm 
and  unexcited,  that  one  could  n't  help  believing  him. 

It  seemed  a  great  way  that  we  rode,  in  parts  of  the 
city  that  I  never  saw  before,  in  streets  whose  names 
were  unknown  to  me,  till  finally  we  alighted  before  a 
plain  house  in  a  street  full  of  drinking-saloons.  As  we 
drove  up,  we  heard  the  sound  of  hymn-singing,  and 
looked  into  a  long  room  set  with  benches  which  seemed 
full  of  people.  We  stopped  a  moment  to  listen  to  the 
words  of  an  old  Methhodist  hymn ; 

"  Come,  ye  weary,  heavy-laden, 
Lost  and  ruined  by  the  fall, 
If  you  tarry  till  you're  better, 
You  will  never  come  at  all. 
Not  the  righteous — 
Sinners,  Jesus  came  to  call. 

"  Come,  ye  thirsty,  come  and  welcome, 

God's  free  bounty  glorify. 

True  belief  and  true  repentance, 

Every  grace  that  brings  us  nigh, 
Without  money, 
Come  to  Jesus  Christ  and  buy." 

It  was  the  last  hymn,  and  they  were  about  breaking 
up  as  we  went  into  the  house.  This  building,  Mr. 
James  told  us,  used  to  be  a  rat-pit,  where  the  lowest, 
vilest,  and  most  brutal  kinds  of  sport  were  going  on. 
It  used  to  be,  he  said,  foul  and  filthy,  physically  as  well 
as  morally;  but  scrubbing  and  paint  and  whitewash 
had  transformed  it  into  a  comfortable  home.  There  was 
a  neat  sitting-room,  carpeted  and  comfortably  furnished, 
a  dining-room,  a  pantry  stocked  with  serviceable  china, 
a  work-room  with  two  or  three  sewing-machines,  and  a 
kitchen,  from  which  at  this  moment  came  a  most  appe- 


378  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

tizing  smell  of  the  soup  which  was  preparing  for  the 
midnight  supper.  Above,  were  dormitories,  in  which 
were  lodging  about  twenty  girls,  who  had  fled  to  this 
refuge  to  learn  a  new  life.  They  had  known  the  depth 
of  sin  and  the  bitterness  of  punishment,  had  been 
spurned,  disgraced  and  outcast.  Some  of  them  had  been 
at  Blackwell's  Island — on  the  street — in  the  very  gutter 
— and  now,  here  they  were,  as  I  saw  some  of  them,  de 
cently  and  modestly  dressed,  and  busy  preparing  for  the 
supper.  When  I  looked  at  them  setting  the  tables,  or 
busy  about  their  cooking,  they  seemed  so  cheerful  and 
respectable,  I  could  scarcely  believe  that  they  had  been 
so  degraded.  A  portion  of  them  only  were  detailed  for 
the  night  service;  the  others  had  come  up  from  the 
chapel  and  were  going  to  bed  in  the  dormitories,  and  we 
heard  them  singing  a  hymn  before  retiring.  It  was  very 
affecting  to  me — the  sound  of  that  hymn,  and  the  thought 
of  so  peaceful  a  home  in  the  midst  of  this  dreadful 
neighborhood.  Mr.  James  introduced  us  to  the  man 
and  his  wife  who  take  charge  of  the  family.  They  are 
converts — the  fruits  of  these  labors.  He  was  once  a 
singer,  and  connected  with  a  drinking-saloon,  but  was 
now  giving  his  whole  time  and  strength  to  this  work,  in 
which  he  had  all  the  more  success  because  he  had  so 
thorough  an  experience  and  knowledge  of  the  people  to 
be  reached.  We  were  invited  to  sit  down  to  a  supper 
in  the  dining-room,  for  Mr.  James  said  we  should  be  out 
so  late  before  returning  home  that  we  should  need  some 
thing  to  sustain  us.  So  we  took  some  of  the  soup  which 
was  preparing  for  the  midnight  supper,  and  very  nice  and 
refreshing  we  found  it.  After  this,  we  went  out  with 
Mr.  James  and  the  superintendent,  to  go  through  the 
saloons  and  dance-houses  and  drinking  places,  and  to 
distribute  tickets  of  invitation  to  the  supper.  What  we 
saw  seems  now  to  me  like  a  dream.  I  had  heard  that 


EVA    TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.  379 

such  things  were,  but  never  before  did  I  see  them.  We 
went  from  one  place  to  another,  and  always  the  same 
features — a  dancing-room,  with  girls  and  women  dressed 
and  ornamented,  sitting  round  waiting  for  partners ;  men 
of  all  sorts  walking  in  and  surveying  and  choosing  from 
among  them  and  dancing,  and,  afterwards  or  before, 
going  with  them  to  the  bar  to  drink.  Many  of  these 
girls  looked  young  and  comparatively  fresh;  their 
dresses  were  cut  very  low,  so  that  I  blushed  for  them 
through  my  veil.  I  clung  tight  to  Harry's  arm,  and 
asked  myself  where  I  was,  as  I  moved  round  among 
them.  Nobody  noticed  us.  Everybody  seemed  to  have 
alright  to  be  there,  and  see  what  they  could. 

I  remember  one  large  building  of  two  or  three  stories, 
with  larger  halls  below,  all  lighted  up,  with  dancing  and 
drinking  going  on,  and  throngs  and  throngs  of  men,  old 
and  young,  pouring  and  crowding  through  it.  These 
tawdrily  bedizened,  wretched  girls  and  women  seemed 
to  me  such  a  sorrow  and  disgrace  to  womanhood  and  to 
Christianity  that  my  very  heart  sunk,  as  I  walked  among 
them.  I  felt  as  if  Ixould  have  cried  for  their  disgrace. 
Yet  nobody  said  a  word  to  us.  All  the  keepers  of  the 
places  seemed  to  know  Mr.  James  and  the  superinten 
dent.  He  spoke  to  them  all  kindly  and  politely,  and 
they  answered  with  the  same  civility.  In  one  or  two 
of  the  saloons,  the  superintendent  asked  leave  to  sing  a 
song,  which  was  granted,  and  he  sung  the  hymn  that 
begins : 

"  I  love  to  tell  the  story 

Of  unseen  things  above, 
Of  Jesus  and  his  glory, 

Of  Jesus  and  his  love  ; 
I  love  to  tell  the  story — 

It  did  so  much  for  me — 
And  that  is  just  the  reason 

I  tell  it  unto  thee." 


380  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

At  another  place,  he  sung  "  Home,  sweet  home/'  and 
I  thought  I  saw  many  faces  that  looked  sad.  Either  our 
presence  was  an  embarrassment,  or  for  some  other  reason 
it  seemed  to  me  there  was  no  real  gaiety,  and  that  the 
dancing  and  the  keeping  up  of  a  show  of  hilarity  were 
all  heavy  work. 

There  seems,  however,  to  be  a  gradation  in  these 
dreadful  places.  Besides  these  which  were  furnished 
with  some  show  and  pretension,  there  were  cellars  where 
the  same  sort  of  thing  was  going  on — dancing  and 
drinking,  and  women  set  to  be  the  tempters  of  men.  We 
saw  miserable  creatures  standing  out  on  the  sidewalk,  to 
urge  the  passers-by  to  come  into  these  cellars.  It  was 
pitiful,  heart-breaking  to  see. 

But  the  lowest,  the  most  dreadful  of  all,  was  what 
they  called  the  bucket  shops.  There  the  vilest  of  liq 
uors  are  mixed  in  buckets  and  sold  to  wretched,  crazed 
people  who  have  fallen  so  low  that  they  cannot  get 
anything  better.  It  is  the  lowest  depth  of  the  dreadful 
deep. 

Oh,  those  bucket  shops !  Never  shall  I  forget  the 
poor,  forlorn,  forsaken-looking  creatures,  both  men  and 
women,  that  I  saw  there.  They  seemed  crouching  in 
from  the  cold — hanging  about,  or  wandering  uncertainly 
up  and  down.  Mr.  James  spoke  to  many  of  them,  as 
if  he  knew  them,  kindly  and  sorrowfully.  "  This  is  a 
hard  way  you  are  going,"  he  said  to  one.  "Ar'n't  you 
most  tired  of  it?"  "Well,"  he  said  to  another  poor 
creature,  "  when  you  have  gone  as  far  as  you  can,  and 
come  to  the  end,  and  nobody  will  have  you,  and  nobody 
do  anything  for  you,  then  come  to  us,  and  we'll  take 
you  in." 

During  all  this  time,  and  in  all  these  places,  the 
Superintendent,  who  seemed  to  have  a  personal  knowl 
edge  of  many  of  those  among  whom  he  was  moving,  was 


EVA    TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.  381 

busy  distributing  his  tickets  of  invitation  to  the  supper. 
He  knew  where  the  utterly  lost  and  abandoned  ones 
were  most  to  be  found,  and  to  them  he  gave  most 
regard. 

But  as  yet,  though  I  looked  with  anxious  eyes,  I  had 
seen  nothing  of  Maggie.  I  spoke  to  Mr.  James  at  last, 
and  he  said,  "  We  have  not  yet  visited  Mother  Moggs's 
establishment,  where  she  was  said  to  be.  We  are  going 
there  now." 

"  Mother  Moggs  is  a  character  in  her  way,"'  he  told 
us.  "  She  has  always  treated  me  with  perfect  respect 
and  politeness,  because  I  have  shown  the  same  to  her. 
She  seems  at  first  view  like  any  other  decent  woman, 
but  she  is  one  that,  if  she  were  roused,  would  be  as 
prompt  with  knife  and  pistol  as  any  man  in  these 
streets."  As  he  said  this,  we  turned  a  corner,  and  en 
tered  a  dancing-saloon,  in  its  features  much  like  many 
others  we  had  seen.  Mother  Moggs  stood  at  a  sort  of 
bar  at  the  upper  end,  where  liquors  were  displayed  and 
sold.  She  seemed  really  so  respectably  dressed,  and  so 
quiet  and  pleasant-looking,  that  I  could  scarcely  believe 
my  eyes  when  I  saw  her. 

Mr.  James  walked  up  with  us  to  where  she  was 
standing,  and  spoke  to  her,  as  he  does  to  every  one, 
gently  and  respectfully,  inquiring  after  her  health,  and 
then,  in  a  lower  tone,  he  said,  "  And  how  about  the  health 
of  your  soul  ?" 

She  colored,  and  forced  a  laugh,  and  answered  with 
some  smartness:  "Which  soul  do  you  mean  ?  I've  got 
two — one  on  each  foot." 

He  took  no  notice  of  the  jest,  but  went  on  : 

"  And  how  about  the  souls  of  these  girls  ?  What  will 
become  of  them  ?" 

"I  ain't  hurting  their  souls,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
force  'em  to  stay  with  me ;  they  come  of  their  own  ac- 


382  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

cord,  and  they  can  go  when  they  please.  I  don't  keep 
'em.  If  any  of  my  girls  can  better  themselves  anywhere 
else,  I  don't  stand  in  their  way." 

The  air  of  virtuous  assurance  with  which  she  spoke 
would  have  given  the  impression  that  she  was  pursuing, 
under  difficult  circumstances,  some  praiseworthy  branch 
of  industry  at  which  her  girls  were  apprentices. 

Just  at  this  moment,  I  turned,  and  saw  Maggie  stand 
ing  behind  me.  She  was  not  with  the  other  girls,  but 
standing  *a  little  back,  toward  the  bar.  Instantly  I 
crossed  over,  and,  raising  my  veil,  said,  "  Maggie,  poor 
child !  come  back  to  your  mother." 

Her  face  changed  in  a  moment ;  she  looked  pale,  as 
if  she  were  going  to  faint,  and  said  only,  "  Oh!  Mrs. 
Henderson,  you  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  came  to  look  for  you,  Maggie.  Come  right 
away  with  us,"  I  said.  "O  Maggie  !  come,"  and  I  burst 
into  tears. 

She  seemed  dreadfully  agitated,  but  said : 

"Oh,  I  can't;  it's  too  late!" 

"  No,  it  isn't.  Mr.  James,"  I  said,  "here  she  is.  Her 
mother  has  sent  for  her." 

"And  you,  madam,"  said  Mr.  James  to  the  woman, 
"  have  just  said  you  wouldn't  stand  in  the  way,  if  any  of 
your  girls  could  better  themselves." 

The  woman  was  fairly  caught  in  her  own  trap.  She 
cast  an  evil  look  at  us  all,  but  said  nothing,  as  we 
turned  to  leave,  I  holding  upon  Maggie,  determined  not 
to  let  her  go. 

We  took  her  with  us  to  the  Home.  She  was  crying 
as  if  her  heart  would  break.  The  girls  who  were  getting 
the  supper  looked  at  her  with  sympathy  and  gathered 
round  her.  One  of  them  interested  me  deeply.  She 
was  very  pale  and  thin,  but  had  such  a  sweet  expression 
of  peace  and  humility  in  her  face!  She  came  and  sat 


EVA    TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.  383 

down  by  Maggie  and  said,  "Don't  be  afraid;  this  is 
Christ's  home,  and  he  will  save  you  as  he  has  me.  I 
was  worse  than  you  are — worse  than  you  ever  could  be — 
and  He  has  saved  me.  I  am  so  happy  here!" 

And  now  the  .miserable  wretches  who  had  been  in 
vited  to  the  supper  came  pouring  in.  Oh,  such  a  sight ! 
Such  forlorn  wrecks  of  men,  in  tattered  and  torn  gar 
ments,  with  such  haggard  faces,  such  weary,  despairing 
eyes !  They  looked  dazed  at  the  light  and  order  and 
quiet  they  saw  as  they  came  in.  Mr.  James  and  the 
superintendent  stood  at  the  door,  saying,  "Come  in, 
boys,  come  in;  you're  welcome  heartily!  Here  you  are, 
glad  to  see  you,"  seating  them  on  benches  at  the  lower 
part  of  the  room. 

While  the  supper  was  being  brought  in,  the  table  was 
set  with  an  array  of  bowls  of  smoking  hot  soup  and  a 
large  piece  of  nice  white  bread  at  each  place.  When  all 
had  been  arranged,  Mr.  James  saw  to  seating  the  whole 
band  at  the  tables,  asked  a  blessing,  standing  at  the 
head,  and  then  said,  cheerily,  "  Now,  boys,  fall  to ;  eat  all 
you  want ;  there  is  plenty  more  where  this  came  from, 
and  you  shall  have  as  much  as  you  can  carry." 

The  night  was  cold,  and  the  soup  was  savory  and 
hot,  and  the  bread  white  and  fine,  and  many  of  them  ate 
with  a  famished  appetite;  the  girls  meanwhile  stood 
watchful  to  replenish  the  bowls  or  hand  more  bread. 
All  seemed  to  be  done  with  such  a  spirit  of  bountiful, 
cheerful  good-will  as  was  quite  inspiriting. 

It,  was  not  till  hunger  was  fully  satisfied  that  Mr. 
James  began  to  talk  to  them,  and  when  he  did,  I  won 
dered  at  his  tact. 

"  This  is  quite  the  thing,  now,  isn't  it,  boys,  of  a  cold 
night  like  this,  when  a  fellow  is  hungry  ?  See  what  it  is 
to  have  friends. 

"  I  suppose,  boys,  you  get  better  suppers  than  these 


384  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS.    . 

from  those  fellows  that  you  buy  your  drink  of.  They 
make  suppers  for  you  sometimes,  I  suppose  ?" 

"No,  indeed,"  growled  some  of  the  men.  "Catch 
'em  doing  it!" 

"  Why,  I  should  think  they  ought  to,  when  you  spend 
all  your  money  on  them.  You  pay  all  your  money  to 
them,  and  make  yourselves  so  poor  that  you  have  n't  a 
crust,  and  then  they  won't  even  get  you  a  supper?" 

" No,  that  they  won't,"  growled  some.  "They  don't 
care  if  we  starve." 

"Boys,"  said  Mr.  James,  "aren't  you  fools?  Here 
these  men  get  rich,  and  you  get  poor.  You  pay  all  your 
earnings  to  them.  You  can't  have  anything,  and  they 
have  everything.  They  can  have  plate-glass  windows, 
and  they  can  keep  their  carriages,  and  their  wives  have 
their  silk  dresses  and  jewels,  and  you  pay  for  it  all ;  and 
then,  when  you've  spent  your  last  cent  over  their  coun 
ters,  they  kick  you  into  the  street.  Aren't  you  fools 
to  be  supporting  such  men?  Your  wives  don't  get 
any  silk  dresses,  I'll  bet.  O  boys,  where  are  your 
wives  ? — where  are  your  mothers  ? — where  are  your 
children?" 

By  this  time  they  were  looking  pretty  sober,  and  some 
of  them  had  tears  in  their  eyes. 

"  Oh,  boys,  boys  !  this  is  a  bad  way  you've  been  in — 
a  bad  way.  Have  n't  you  gone  long  enough  ?  Don't  you 
want  to  give  it  up?  Look  here — now,  boys,  I'll  read 
you  a  story."  And  then  he  read  from  his  pocket  Testa 
ment  the  Parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son.  He  read  it^beau- 
tifully :  I  thought  I  had  never  understood  it  before. 
When  he  had  done,  he  said,  "  And  now,  boys,  had  n't  you 
better  come  back  to  your  Father  ?  Do  you  remember, 
some  of  you,  how  your  mother  used  to  teach  you  to  say, 
'Our  Father,  who  art  in  heaven?'  Come  now,  kneel 
down,  every  one  of  you,  and  let's  try  it  once  more." 


EVA    TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.  385 

They  all  knelt,  and  I  never  heard  anything  like  that 
prayer.  It  was  so  loving,  so  earnest,  so  pitiful.  He 
prayed  for  those  poor  men,  as  if  he  were  praying  for  his 
own  soul.  They  must  have  felt  how  he  loved  them.  It 
almost  broke  my  heart  to  hear  him :  it  did  seem  for  the 
time  as  if  the  wall  were  down  that  separates  God's  love 
from  us,  and  that  everybody  must  feel  it,  even  these  poor 
wretched  creatures. 

There  were  among  them  some  young  men,  and  some 
whose  heads  and  features  were  good,  and  indicative  of 
former  refinement  of  feeling.  I  could  not  help  thinking 
how  many  histories  of  sorrow,  for  just  so  many  families, 
were  written  in  those  faces. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  can  save  any  of  these  ?"  I 
said  to  Mr.  James,  as  they  were  going  out. 

"  We  cannot,  but  God  can,"  he  said  "  With  God, 
all  things  are  possible.  We  have  seen  a  great  many 
saved  that  were  as  low  as  these ;  but  it  was  only  by  the 
power  of  God  converting  their  souls.  That  is  at  all 
times  possible." 

"  But,"  said  Harry,  "  the  craving  for  drink  gets  to  be 
a  physical  disease." 

"  Yet  I  have  seen  that  craving  all  subdued  and  taken 
away  by  the  power  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  They  become 
new  creatures  in  Christ." 

"  That  would  be  almost  miraculous,"  said  Harry. 

"We  must  expect  miracles,  and  we  shall  have  them," 
replied  he. 

Meanwhile  the  girls  had  gathered  around  Maggie, 
and  were  talking  with  her,  and  when  we  spoke  of  going, 
she  said : 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Henderson,  let  me  stay  here  awhile  ;  the 
girls  here  will  help  me,  and  I  can  do  some  good  here, 
and  by-and-by,  perhaps,  when  I  am  stronger,  I  can  come 
back  to  mother.     It's  better  for  me  here  now." 
R 


386  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Mr.  James  and  the  matron  both  agreed  that,  for  the 
present,  this  would  be  best. 

There  is  a  current  of  sympathy,  an  energy  of  Chris 
tian  feeling,  a  sort  of  enthusiasm,  about  this  house,  that 
helps  one  to  begin  anew. 

It  was  nearly  morning  before  we  found  ourselves  in 
our  home  again — but,  for  me,  the  night  has  not  been 
spent  in  vain.  Oh,  mother,  can  it  be  that  in  a  city  full 
of  churches  and  Christians  such  dreadful  things  as  I  saw 
are  going  on  every  night  ?  Certainly,  if  all  Christians 
felt  about  it  as  those  do  who  have  begun  this  Home,  there 
would  be  a  change.  If  every  Christian  would  do  a  little, 
a  great  deal  would  be  done ;  for  there  are  many  Chris 
tians*  But  now  it  seems  as  if  a  few  were  left  to  do  all, 
while  the  many  do  nothing.  But  Harry  and  I  are  resolved 
henceforth  to  do  our  part  in  helping  this  work. 

Mary  is  comforted  about  Maggie  and  unboundedly 
grateful  to  me  for  going. 

I  think  she  herself  prefers  her  staying  there  awhile ; 
she  has  felt  so  keenly  what  Aunt  Maria  said  about  her 
being  a  burden  and  disgrace  to  us. 

We  shall  watch  over  her  there,  -and  help  her  forward 
in  life  as  fast  as  she  is  strong  enough  to  go.     But  I  am 
making  this  letter  too  long,  so  good-by  for  the  present. 
Your  loving  EVA. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

JIM'S   FORTUNES. 

'•TT  7ELL,  hurrah  for  Jim!"  exclaimed  our  friend 

VV  Jim  Fellows,  making  tumultuous  entrance  into 
the  Henderson  house,  with  such  a  whirl  and  breeze  of 
motion  as  to  flutter  the  music  on  the  piano,  and  the 
papers  on  Harry's  writing-desk,  while  he  skipped  round 
the  room,  executing  an  extemporary  pas  seul. 

"Jim,  for  goodness  sake,  what  now?"  said  Harry, 
rising.  "What's  up?" 

"I've  got  it!  I've  got  it! — the  first  place  on  'the 
Forum!'  Thinjc  of  the  luck!  I've  been  talking  with 
Ivison  and  Sears  about  it,  and  the  papers  are  all  drawn. 
I'm  made  now,  you'd  better  believe.  It's  firm  land  at 
last,  and  I  tell  you,  if  I  have  n't  scratched  for  it !" 

"Wish  you  joy,  my  boy,  with  all  my  heart,"  said 
Harry,  shaking  his  hand.  "  It's  the  top  of  the  ladder." 

"And  I,  too,  Jim,"  said  Eva,  offering  her  hand  frank 
ly.  "  Sit  down  and  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  us." 

"You  don't  care,  I  suppose,  what  happens  to  me" 
said  Jim  in  an  abused  tone,  turning  to  Alice,  who  had 
sat  quietly  in  a  shaded  corner  through  this  outburst. 

"Bless  me,  Jim,  I've  been  holding  my  breath,  for  I 
did  n't  know  what  you'd  do  next.  I'm  sure  I  wish  you 
joy  with  all  my  heart.  There's  my  hand  on  it,"  and 
Alice  reached  out  her  hand  as  frankly  as  Eva. 

It  was  a  hand  as  fair,  soft  and  white  as  a  man  might 
wish  to  have  settle  like  a  dove  of  peace  and  rest  in  his 
own ;  and,  as  it  went  into  his  palm,  Jim  could  not  help 
giving  it  a  warm,  detaining  grasp  that  had  a  certain 


388  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

significance,  especially  as  his  eyes  rested  upon  her  with 
a  flash  of  expression  before  which  hers  fell. 

Alice  had  come  to  Eva's  to  dine,  and  they  were  now- 
just  enjoying  that  pleasant  after-dinner  hour  around  the 
fireside,  when  they  sat  and  played  with  their  tea  in  pretty 
teacups,  and  chatted,  and  looked  into  the  fire.  It  is  the 
hour  dear  to  memory,  when  the  home  fireside  seems  like 
a  picture,  when  the  gleams  of  light  that  fall  on  one's 
plants  and  pictures  and  books  and  statuettes,  bring  forth 
some  new  charm  in  each  one,  giving  rise  to  the  exulting 
feeling,  "  Nowhere  in  the  world  is  there  a  place  so  pretty 
and  so  cosy  as  this." 

Now,  Alice  had  been  meditating  a  return  to  her  own 
home  that  night,  trusting  to  Harry  for  escort ;  but,  at  the 
moment  that  Jim  took  her  hand  and  she  saw  the  expres 
sion  of  his  eyes,  she  mentally  altered  her  intentions  and 
resolved  to  remain  all  night.  She  was  sure  if  she  rose 
to  go  Jim  would,  of  course,  be  her  escort.  She  was  not 
going  to  walk  home  alone  with  him  in  his  present  mood, 
and  trust  herself  to  hear,  and  be  obliged  to  answer,  any 
thing  he  might  be  led  to  say. 

The  fact  is  well  known  to  observers  of  mental  phe 
nomena,  that  an  engagement  suddenly  sprung  upon  a 
circle  of  intimate  acquaintances  is  often  productive  of 
great  searchings  of  heart,  and  that  it  is  apt  to  have  a 
result  similar  to  the  knocking  down  of  one  brick  at  the 
extreme  of  a  line  of  them. 

Alice  had  been  startled  and  astonished  by  finding 
her  rector  descending  from  the  semi-angelic  sphere 
where  she  had,  in  her  imagination,  placed  him,  and 
coming  into  the  ranks  of  mortal  and  marrying  men. 
She  had  seen  and  handled  the  engagement  ring  which 
sparkled  on  Angie's  finger,  and  it  looked  like  any  other 
ring  that  a  gentleman  of  good  taste  might  buy,  and 
she  had  heard  all  the  comments  of  the  knowing  ones 


JIM'S  FORTUNES.  389 

thereon.  Already  there  was  activity  in  the  direction  of 
a  prospective  trousseau.  Aunt  Maria,  with  her  usual 
alertness,  was  prizing  stuffs  and  giving  records  of  prices 
and  of  cheap  and  desirable  shopping  places,  and  racing 
from  one  end  of  the  city  to  the  other  in  self-imposed 
pilgrimages  of  research.  There  were  discussions  of 
houses  for  the  future  rectory.  Everything  was  in  a 
whirl  of  preparation.  There  was  marriage  in  the  very 
air :  and  the  same  style  of  reflection  which  occurs  when 
there  is  a  death,  is  apposite  also  to  the  betrothal — 
"Whose  turn  shall  come  next?"  "Hodie  mihi — eras  tibi." 

Jim  Fellows,  the  most  excitable,  sympathetic  of  all 
mortal  Jims,  may  well  be  supposed  to  have  felt  some 
thing  of  the  general  impulse. 

Now,  Miss  Alice  was  as  fine  a  specimen  of  young- 
lady-hood  at  twenty-two  as  is  ordinarily  to  be  met  with 
in  New  York  or  otherwhere.  She  was  well  read,  well 
bred,  high-minded  and  high-principled.  She  was  a  little 
inclined  to  the  ultra-romantic  in  her  views,  and  while 
living  along  contentedly,  and  with  a  moderate  degree  of 
good  sense  and  comfort,  with  such  people  as  were  to  be 
found  on  earth,  was  a  little  prone  to  indulge  dreams  of 
super-celestial  people — imaginary  heroes  and  heroines. 
In  the  way  of  friendship,  she  imagined  she  liked  many 
of  her  gentlemen  associates;  but  the  man  she  was  to 
marry  was  to  be  a  hero — somebody  before  whom  she 
and  every  one  else  should  be  irresistibly  constrained  to 
bow  down  and  worship.  She  knew  nobody  of  this  species 
as  yet. 

Harry  was  all  very  well;  a  nice  fellow — a  bright, 
lively,  wide-awake  fellow — a  faultless  husband — a  de 
sirable  brother-in-law ;  but  still  Harry  was  not  a  hero. 
He  was  a  man  subject  to  domestic  discipline  for  at 
times  littering  the  parlor  table  with  too  many  pam 
phlets,  for  giving  imprudent  invitations  to  dinner  on  an 


390  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

ill-considered  bill  of  fare,  and  for  confounding  solferino 
with  pink  when  describing  colors  or  matching  worsteds. 
All  these  things  brought  him  down  into  the  sphere  of 
the  actual,  and  took  off  the  halo.  In  review  of  all  the 
married  men  of  her  acquaintance,  she  was  constrained 
to  acknowledge  that  the  genus  hero  was  rare.  Nobody 
that  she  was  acquainted  with  ever  had  married  this  kind 
of  being;  and,  in  fact,  within  her  own  mind  his  linea 
ments  were  cloudy  and  indistinct,  like  the  magic  looking- 
glass  of  Agrippa  before  the  destined  image  shone  out. 
She  only  knew  of  this  or  that  mortal  man  of  her 
acquaintance,  that  he  was  not  in  the  least  like  this  ideal 
of  her  dreams. 

Meanwhile,  Miss  Alice  was  not  at  all  insensible  to 
the  charm  of  having  a  friend  of  the  other  sex  wholly 
and  entirely  devoted  to  her. 

She  thought  she  had  with  most  exemplary  frankness 
and  directness  indicated  to  Jim  that  they  were  to  be 
friends  and  only  friends ;  she  had  contended  for  her  right 
to  be  just  as  intimate  with  him  as  he  and  she  pleased,  in 
the  face  of  Aunt  Maria  and  of  all  the  ranks  and  orders 
of  good  gossips  who  make  the  regulation  of  other  peo 
ple's  affairs  a  specialty;  and  she  nattered  herself  that 
she  had  at  last  conquered  this  territory  and  secured  for 
herself  this  independent  right. 

People  had  almost  done  telling  her  they  had  heard 
that  she  was  engaged  to  Jim  Fellows,  and  asking  her 
when  it  was  going  to  be  announced.  She  plumed  her 
self,  in  a  quiet  way,  on  the  independence  and  spirit  she 
had  shown  in  the  matter. 

Now,  Jim  was  one  of  those  fellows  who,  in  certain 
respects,  remain  a  boy  forever.  The  boy  in  him  was  cer 
tainly  booked  for  as  long  a  mortal  journey  as  the  man; 
and,  at  threescore  years  and  ten,  one  ought  not  to  expect 
to  meet  in  him  other  than  a  white-headed,  vivacious  old 


JIM'S  FORTUNES.  391 

boy.  He  was  a  driving,  industrious,  efficient  creature. 
He  was,  in  all  respects,  ideally  fitted  to  success  in  the 
profession  he  had  chosen ;  the  very  image  and  body  of 
the  New  York  press  man — lively,  versatile,  acute,  un 
sleeping,  untiring,  always  wide-awake,  up  and  dressed, 
and  in  full  command  of  his  faculties,  at  any  hour  of  day 
or  night,  ready  for  any  emergency,  overflowing  with 
inconsiderate  fun  and  frolic,  and,  like  the  public  he 
served,  going  for  his  joke  at  any  price.  Since  his  inti 
macy  with  Alice  she  had  assumed  to  herself  the  right  of 
looking  over  his  ways  and  acting  the  part  of  an  exterior 
conscience ;  and  Jim  had  formed  the  habit  of  bringing 
to  her  his  articles  for  criticism.  And  Alice  flattered  her 
self  that  she  was  not  altogether  selfish  in  accepting  his 
devotion,  but  was  saving  him  from  many  an  unwise  esca 
pade,  and  exciting  him  to  higher  standards  and  nobler 
ways  of  looking  at  life. 

Of  all  the  Christian  and  becoming  rdles  in  the  great 
drama  of  life,  there  is  none  that  so  exactly  suits  young 
ladies  of  a  certain  degree  of  gravity  and  dignity  as  that 
of  guardian  angel. 

Now,  in  respect  to  Jim,  Alice  certainly  was  fitted  to 
sustain  this  rfile.  She  was  well-poised,  decided,  sensible 
and  serious  in  her  conceptions  of  life,  truthful  and  con 
scientious  ;  and  the  dash  of  ideality  which  pervaded  all 
her  views  gave  to  her,  in  the  eyes  of.  the  modern  New 
York  boy,  a  sort  of  sacred  prestige,  like  the  halo  around 
a  saint. 

No  one  sees  life  on  a  harder,  colder,  more  utterly 
unscrupulous  side  than  the  fikve  of  the  New  York  press. 
He  grinds  in  a  mill  of  competition.  He  serves  sharp  and 
severe  masters,  who  in  turn  are  driven  up  by  an  exacting, 
irresponsible  public,  panting  for  excitement,  grasping  for 
the  latest  sensation.  The  man  of  the  press  sees  behind 
the  scenes  in  every  illusion  of  life ;  the  shapeless  pulleys, 


392  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

the  dripping  tallow  candles  that  light  up  the  show,  all  are 
familiar  to  him. 

To  him  come  all  the  tribes  who  have  axes  to  grind, 
and  want  him  to  turn  their  grindstones.  Avarice,  ambi 
tion,  petty  vanity,  private  piques,  mean  intrigues,  sly 
revenges,  all  unbosom  themselves  to  him  as  to  a  father 
confessor,  and  invoke  his  powerful  aid.  To  him  it  is 
given  to  see  the  back  door  and  back  stairs  of  much  that 
the  world  venerates,  and  he  finds  there  filthy  sweepings 
and  foul  dttris.  Even  the  church  of  every  name  and 
sect  has  its  back  door,  its  unsightly  sweepings.  He  who 
is  in  so  many  secrets,  who  expolres  so  many  cabals,  who 
sees  the  wrong  side  of  so  many  a  fair  piece  of  goods,  with 
all  its  knots,  and  jags,  and  thrums,  what  wonder  if  he 
come  to  that  worse  form  of  scepticism — the  doubt  of  all 
truth,  of  all  virtue,  of  all  honor?  When  he  sees  how 
reputations  can  be  made  and  unmade  in  the  secret  con 
claves  of  printing  offices,  how  generous  and  holy  enthusi 
asms  are  assumed  as  a  cloak  for  low  and  selfish  designs, 
how  the  language  which  stirs  man's  deepest  nature  lies 
around  loose  in  the  hands  of  skilled  word-experts,  to  be 
used  in  getting  up  cabals  and  carrying  party  intrigues, 
it  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at  if  he  come  to  regard  life 
as  a  mere  game  of  skill,  where  the  shrewdest  player  wins. 
It  is  exactly  here  that  a  true,  good  woman  is  the  moral 
salvation  of  man.  Such  a  woman  seems  to  a  man  more 
than  she  can  ever  seem  to  her  female  acquaintances. 
She  is  to  him  the  proof  of  a  better  world,  of  a  truer  life, 
of  the  reality  of  justice,  purity,  honor,  and  unselfishness. 
He  regards  her,  to  be  sure,  as  unpractical,  and  ignorant 
of  the  world's  ways,  but  with  a  holy  ignorance  which 
belongs  to  a  higher  region. 

Jim  had  dived  into  New  York  life  at  first  with  the 
mere  animal  recklessness  with  which  an  expert  swimmer 
shows  his  skill  in  difficult  navigation.  Life  was  an 


JIM'S  FORTUNES.  393 

adventure,  a  game,  a  game  at  which  he  was  determined 
nobody  should  cheat  him,  a  race  in  which  he  was  deter 
mined  to  come  out  ahead.  Nobody  should  catch  him 
napping;  nobody  should  outwit  him;  he  would  be 
nobody's  fool.  His  acquaintance  with  a  certain  class  of 
girls  was  only  a  continuation  of  the  bright,  quick,  adroit 
game  of  fencing  which  he  played  in  the  world.  If  a  girl 
would  flirt,  so  would  Jim.  He  was  au  courant  of  all  the 
positions  and  strategy  of  that  sort  of  encounter ;  he  had 
all  the  persiflage  of  flattery  and  compliment  at  his 
tongue's  end,  and  enjoyed  the  rustle  and  nutter  of  rib 
bons,  the  tapping  of  fans,  and  the  bustle  and  mystery  of 
small  secrets,  the  little  "ohs  and  ahs,"  and  feminine  com 
motions  that  he  could  stir  up  in  almost  any  bevy  of 
nymphs  in  evening  dresses.  Speaking  of  female  influ 
ence,  there  are  some  exceptions  to  be  taken  to  the  gen 
eral  theory  that  woman  has  an  elevating  power  over 
man.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  there  goes  any  of 
this  divine  impulse  from  giggling,  flirting  girls,  whose 
highest  aim  is  to  secure  the  admiration  and  attention 
of  men,  and  who,  to  get  it,  will  flatter  and  fawn,  profess 
to  adore  tobacco  smoke,  and  even  to  have  a  warm 
side  towards  whiskey  punch, — girls  whose  power  over 
men  is  based  on  an  indiscriminate  deference  to  what 
men  themselves  feel  to  be  their  lower  and  less  worthy 
nature. 

The  woman  who  really  wins  for  herself  a  worthy 
influence  with  a  man  is  she  who  recognizes  in  him  the 
divine  under  all  worldly  disguises,  and  invariably  and 
strongly  takes  part  with  his  higher  against  his  lower 
nature.  This  was  the  secret  of  Alice's  power  over  Jim ; 
and  this  was  why  she  had  become,  in  the  secret  and 
inner  world  of  his  life,  almost  a  religious  image.  All  his 
dawning  aspirations  to  be  somewhat  better  than  a  mere 
chaser  of  expedients,  to  be  a  man  of  lofty  objects  and 


394  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

noble  purposes,  had  come  from  her  acquaintance  with 
him — an  acquaintance  begun  on  both  sides  in  the  spirit 
of  mere  flirtation,  and  passing  from  that  to  esteem  and 
friendship.  But,  in  the  case  of  a  marriageable  young 
man  of  twenty-five,  friendship  is  like  some  of  those  rare 
cacti  of  the  greenhouses  which,  in  an  unexpected  hour, 
burst  out  into  blossoms  of  untold  splendor.  An  engage 
ment  just  declared  in  their  circle  had  breathed  a  warmer 
atmosphere  of  suggestion  around  them,  and  upon  that 
had  come  a  position  in  his  profession  which  oifered  him 
both  consideration  and  money;  and  when  Jim  was 
assured  of  this,  his  first  thought  was  of  Alice. 

"Friendship  is  a  humbug,"  was  that  young  gentle 
men's  mental  decision.  "It  may  do  all  very  well  with 
some  kinds  of  girls  " — and  Jim  mentally  reviewed  some  of 
his  lady  acquaintances — "but  with  Alice  Van  Arsdel,  it 
is  all  humbug  for  me  to  go  on  talking  friendship.  I 
can't)  and  shan't,  and  WON'T."  And  in  this  mood  it  was 
that  he  gave  to  Alice's  hand  that  startling  kind  of 
pressure,  and  something  of  this  flashed  from  his  eyes 
into  hers.  It  was  that  something,  like  the  gleam  of  a 
steel  blade,  determined,  resolute,  assured,  that  discon 
certed  and  alarmed  her.  It  was  like  the  sounding  of  a 
horn,  summoning  a  parley  at  the  postern  gate  of  a  for 
tress,  and  the  lady  chatelaine  not  ready  either  to  sur 
render  or  to  defend.  So,  in  a  moment,  Alice  resolved 
not  to  walk  the  four  or  five  squares  between  her  present 
position  and  home,  tete-a-tete  with  Jim  Fellows ;  and  she 
sat  very  composed  and  very  still  in  her  corner,  and  put 
in  demand  all  those  quiet,  repressive  tactics  by  which 
dignified  young  ladies  keep  back  issues  they  are  not 
precisely  ready  to  meet. 

The  general  subject  under  discussion  when  Jim  came 
in,  was  a  party  to  be  given  at  Aunt  Maria's  the  next 
evening  in  honor  of  the  Stephenses,  when  Angie  and  Mr. 


JIM'S  FORTUNES.  395 

St.  John  would  make  their  first  appearance  together  as 
a  betrothed  couple. 

"  Now,  Jim,"  said  Eva,  "how  lucky  that  you  came  in, 
for  I  was  just  going  to  send  a  note  to  you !  Here's 
Harry  has  got  to  give  a  lecture  to-morrow  night  and 
can't  come  in  till  towards  the  end  of  the  evening. 
Alice  is  coming  to  dine  and  dress  down  here  with  me, 
and  I  want  you  to  dine  with  us  and  be  our  escort  to  the 
party — that  is,  if  you  will  put  up  with  our  dressing  time 
and  not  get  into  such  a  state  of  perfect  amazement  as 
Harry  always  does  when  we  are  not  ready  at  the  mo 
ment." 

"  If  you  ever  get  a  wife,  Jim,  you'll  be  made  perfect 
in  this  science  of  waiting,"  said  Harry.  "The  only  way 
to  have  a  woman  ready  in  season  for  a  party  is  to  shut 
her  up  just  after  breakfast  and  keep  her  at  it  straight 
along  through  the  day.  Then  you  may  have  her  before 
ten  o'clock." 

"  You  see,"  said  Eva,  "  Harry's  only  idea,  when  he 
is  going  to  a  party,  is  to  get  home  again  early.  We 
almost  never  go,  and  then  he  is  in  such  a  hurry  to  get 
there,  so  as  to  have  it  over  with  and  be  at  home  again." 
"Well,  I  confess,  for  my  part,  I  hate  parties,"  said 
Harry.  "  They  always  get  agoing  just  about  my  usual 
bed-time." 

"  Well,  Harry,  you  know  Aunt  Maria  wants  an  old- 
fashioned,  early  party,  at  eight  o'clock  at  the  latest ;  and 
when  she  says  she  wants  a  thing,  she  means  it.  She 
would  never  forgive  us  for  being  late." 

"Dear  me,  Eva,  do  begin  to  dress  over  night  then," 
said  Harry.  "  You  certainly  never  will  get  through  to 
morrow,  if  you  don't." 

"  Harry,  you  sauce-box,  I  think  you  talk  abomina 
bly  about  me.  Just  because  I  have  so  many  more  things 
to  see  to  than  he  has!  A  woman's  dress,  of  course, 


396  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

takes  more  time;  there's  a  good  deal  more  to  do  and 
every  little  thing  has  to  be  just  right. 

"Of  course,  I  know  that,"  said  Harry.  "Have  n't  I 
stood,  and  stood,  and  stood,  while  bows  were  tied,  and 
picked  out,  and  patted,  and  flatted,  and  then  pulled  out 
and  tied  over,  and  when  we  were  half  an  hour  behind 
time  already  ?" 

"I  fancy,"  said  Alice,  "that  if  the  secrets  of  some 
young  gentlemen's  toilets  were  unveiled,  we  should  see 
that  we  were  not  alone  in  tying  bows  and  pulling  them 
out.  I've  known  Tom  to  labor  over  his  neck-ties  by  the 
hour  together ;  it  took  him  quite  as  long  to  prink  as  any 
of  us  girls." 

"  But  do  n't  you  be  alarmed,  Jim,"  said  Eva;  "  we  in 
tend  to  be  on  time." 

"  No,  do  n't,"  said  Harry  ;  "  you  can  have  my  writing- 
table,  and  get  up  your  editorials,  while  the  conjuration 
is  going  on  up-stairs." 

"Just  think,"  said  Alice,  "how  Aunt  Maria  is  com 
ing  out." 

"Why,  yes,  it's  a  larger  affair  than  usual,"  said  Eva. 
"  A  hundred  invitations !  That  must  be  on  account  of 
Angie." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Alice,  "Aunt  Maria  is  pluming  her 
self  on  Angie's  engagement.  Since  she  has  discovered 
that  Mr.  St.  John  has  an  independent  fortune,  there  is 
no  end  to  her  praises  and  felicitations.  Oh,  and  she 
has  altered  her  opinion  entirely  about  his  ritualism. 
The  Bishop,  she  says,  stands  by  him;  and  what  the 
Bishop  doesn't  condemn,  nobody  has  any  right  to;  and 
then  she  sets  forth  what  a  good  family  he  belongs  to,  and 
so  well  connected  !  I'd  like  to  see  anybody  say  anything 
against  Mr.  St.  John's  practices  before  Aunt  Maria  now!" 

"  I'm  sure  this  party  is  quite  an  outlay  for  Aunt 
Maria,"  said  Eva. 


JIM'S  FORTUNES.  397 

"  Oh,"  said  Alice,  "  she's  making  all  her  jellies,  and 
blanc-manges,  and  ice  creams  in  the  house.  You  know 
how  perfectly  she  always  does  things.  I've  been  up 
helping  her.  She  will  have  a  splendid  table.  She  was 
rather  glorifying  herself  to  me  that  she  could  get  up  so 
fine  a  show  at  so  little  expense." 

"Well,  she  can,"  said  Eva.  "No  one  can  get  more 
for  a  given  amount  of  money  than  Aunt  Maria.  I  sup 
pose  that  is  one  of  the  womanly  virtues,  and  one  can 
learn  as  much  of  it  from  her  as  anybody." 

"  Yes,"  said  Alice,  "  if  a  stylish  party  is  the  thing  to 
be  demonstrated,  Aunt  Maria  will  get  one  up  more  suc 
cessfully,  more  perfect  in  all  points,  and  for  less  money, 
than  any  other  woman  in  New  York.  She  will  have 
exactly  the  right  people,  and  exactly  the  right  things  to 
give  them.  Her  rooms  will  be  lovely.  She  will  be 
dressed  herself  to  a  T,  and  she  will  say  just  the  right 
thing  to  everybody.  All  her  nice  silver  and  her  pretty 
things  will  come  out  of  their  secret  crypts  and  recesses 
to  do  honor  to  the  occasion,  and,  for  one  night,  all  will  be 
suavity  and  sociability  personified ;  and  then  everything 
will  go  back  into  lavender,  the  silver  to  the  safe,  the 
chairs  and  lounges  to  their  cover,  the  shades  will  come 
down,  and  her  part  of  the  world's  debt  of  sociability  will 
be  done  up  for  the  year.  Then  she  will  add  up  the 
expense,  and  set  it  down  in  her  account  book,  and  that 
thing  '11  be  finished  and  checked  off." 

"  A  mode  of  proceeding  which  she  was  very  anxious 
to  engraft  upon  me,"  said  Eva;  "but  I  am  a  poor 
stock.  My  instincts  are  for  what  she  would  call  an 
expensive,  chronic  state  of  hospitality,  as  we  live  down 
herei" 

"  Well,"  said  Jim,  "  when  I  get  a  house  of  my  own, 
I'm  going  to  do  as  you  do." 

"  Jim  has  got  sight  of  the  domestic  tea-kettle  in  the 


398  WE  AND   OUR   NEIGHBORS. 

future,"  said  Harry.  "  That's  the  first  effect  of  his  pro 
motion." 

"  Oh,  do  n't  be  in  a  hurry  about  setting  up  a  house  of 
your  own,"  said  Eva.  "I'm  afraid  we  should  miss  you 
here,  and  you're  an  institution,  Jim;  we  could  n't  get  on 
without  you." 

"  Oh,  Jim  ought  not  to  give  up  to  one  what  was 
meant  for  mankind,"  said  Alice,  hardily.  "  I  think  there 
would  be  a  universal  protest  against  his  retiring  to  pri 
vate  life." 

And  Alice  looked  into  the  fire,  apparently  as  sweetly 
unconscious  of  anything  particular  on  Jim's  part  as  if 
she  had  not  read  aright  the  flash  of  his  eye  and  the  pres 
sure  of  his  hand. 

Jim  seemed  vexed  and  nervous,  and  talked  extrava 
ganzas  all  the  evening,  with  more  than  even  his  usual 
fluency,  and  towards  ten  o'clock  said  to  Alice : 

"  I  am  at  your  command  at  any  time,  when  you  are 
ready  to  return  home." 

"Thank  you,  Jim,"  said  Alice,  with  that  demure  and 
easy  composure  with  which  young  ladies  avoid  a  crisis 
without  seeming  to  see  it.  "  I  am  going  to  stay  here 
to-night,  to  discuss  some  important  points  of  party  cos 
tume  with  Eva;  so  mind  you  don't  fail  us  to-morrow 
night.  Au  revoir  /" 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

A   MIDNIGHT    CAUCUS   OVER   THE    COALS. 


o  n>t  you  ^irls  s*4  up  and  talk  a11 

said  Harry  from  the  staircase,  as  he  started 
bedward,  after  Jim  Fellows  had  departed,  and  the 
house-door  was  locked  for  the  night. 

Now,  Eva  was  one  of  that  class  of  household  birds 
whose  eyes  grow  wider  awake  and  brighter  as  the  small 
hours  of  the  night  approach;  and,  just  this  night,  she 
felt  herself  swelling  with  a  world  of  that  distinctively 
feminine  talk  which  women  keep  for  each  other,  when 
the  lordly  part  of  creation  are  out  of  sight  and  hearing. 
Harry,  who  worked  hard  in  his  office  all  day  and  came 
home  tired  at  night,  and  who  had  the  inevitable  next 
lay's  work  ever  before  him,  was  always  an  advocate  for 
early  and  regular  hours,  and  regarded  these  sisterly 
night-watches  with  suspicion. 

"You  know,  now,  Eva,  that  you  oughtn't  to  sit  up 
late.  You're  not  strong,"  he  preached  from  the  stair 
case  in  warning  tones,  as  he  slowly  ascended. 

"  Oh,  no,  dear  ;  we  won't  be  long.  We've  just  got  a 
few  things  to  talk  over." 

"  Well,  you  know  you  never  know  what  time  it  is." 

"  Oh,  never  you  mind,  Harry  ;  you'll  be  asleep  in  ten 
minutes.  I  want  to  talk  with  Ally." 

"  There,  now,  he's  off,"  said  Eva,  gleefully  shutting 
the  door  and  drawing  an  easy  chair  to  the  remains  of  the 
fire,  while  she  disposed  the  little  unburned  brands  and 
ends  so  as  to  make  a  last  blaze  ;  then,  leaning  back,  she 
began  taking  out  hair-pins  and  shaking  down  curls  and 


400  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

untying  ribbons,  as  a  sort  of  preface  to  a  wholly  free  and 
easy  conversation.  "  I  think,  Ally,"  she  said,  with  an  air 
of  profound  reflection,  "  if  I  were  you,  I  should  wear  my 
white  tarletan  to-morrow  night,  with  cherry  -  colored 
trimming,  and  cherry  velvet  in  your  hair.  You  see  that 
altering  the  trimming  changes  the  whole  effect,  so  that  it 
will  look  exactly  like  a  new  dress." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  doing  something  with  the  tarle 
tan,"  said  Alice,  who  had  also  taken  out  her  hair-pins  and 
let  down  her  long  dark  masses  of  hair  around  her  hand 
some  oval  face,  while  her  great  dark  eyes  were  studying 
the  coals  abstractedly.  It  was  quite  evident  by  the  deep 
intense  gaze  she  fixed  before  her  that  it  was  not  the 
tarletan  or  the  trimmings  that  at  that  moment  occupied 
her  mind,  but  something  deeper. 

Eva  saw  and  suspected,  and  went  on  designedly : 

"  How  nice  and  lucky  it  was  that  Jim  came  in  just  as 
he  did." 

"Yes,  it  was  lucky,"  repeated  Alice,  abstractedly, 
taking  off  her  neck-scarf,  and  folding  and  smoothing  it 
with  an  unnecessary  amount  of  precision. 

"  Jim  is  such  a  nice  fellow,"  said  Eva.  "  I  am  thor 
oughly  delighted  that  he  has  got  that  situation.  It  is 
really  quite  a  position  for  him." 

"  Yes,  Jim  is  doing  very  well,"  said  Alice,  with  a  cer 
tain  uneasy  motion. 

"  I  really  think,"  pursued  Eva,  "  that  your  friendship 
has  been  everything  to  Jim.  We  all  notice  how  much  he 
has  improved." 

"  It's  only  that  we  know  him  better,"  said  Alice. 
"  Jim  always  was  a  nice  fellow ;  but  it  takes  a  very  inti 
mate  acquaintance  to  get  at  the  real  earnest  nature  there 
is  under  all  his  nonsense.  But  after  all,  Eva,  I'm  a  little 
afraid  of  trouble  in  that  friendship." 

"Trouble — how?"  said  Eva,  with  the  most  innocent 


Mh'ilitortMMito 


A  MIDNIGHT*  ' cAiittrs/ 

"  'There,  now  he's  off.'  saiS,  Eva.?*  .-,  .  *thsni  le*$ifzg^la( 
began  taking  out  hair-pins  anJ  snakzngdoivn  curls  drid  ti 
ribbons  as  a  preface  to  a  wholly  free  conversation" — p.  400. 


A  CAUCUS  OVER  THE  COALS.  401 

air  in  the  world,  as  if  she  did  not  feel  perfectly  sure  of 
what  was  coming  next. 

"  Well,  I  do  think,  and  I  always  have  said,  that  an 
intimate  friendship  between  a  lady  and  a  gentleman  is 
just  the  best  thing  for  both  parties." 

"Well,  is  n't  it?"  said  Eva. 

"  Well,  yes.  But  the  difficulty  is,  it  won't  stay.  It 
will  get  to  be  something  more  than  you  want,  and  that 
makes  a  trouble.  Now,  did  you  notice  Jim's  manner  to 
me  to-night?" 

"Well,  I  thought  I  saw  something  rather  suspicious," 
said  Eva,  demurely;  "but  then  you  always  have  been 
so  sure  that  there  was  nothing,  and  was  to  be  nothing, 
in  that  quarter." 

"  Well,  I  never  have  meant  there  should  be.  I  have 
been  perfectly  honorable  and  above-board  with  Jim  ; 
treated  him  just  like  a  sister,  and  I  thought  there  was 
the  most  perfect  understanding  between  us." 

"Well,  you  see,  darling,"  said  Eva,  "I've  sometimes 
thought  whether  it  was  quite  fair  to  let  any  one  be  so 
very  intimate  with  one,  unless  one  were  willing  to  take 
the  consequences,  in  case  his  feelings  should  become 
deeply  involved.  Now,  we  should  have  thought  it  a  bad 
thing  for  Mr.  St.  John  to  go  on  cultivating  an  intimate 
friendship  with  Angie,  if  he  never  meant  to  marry.  It 
would  be  taking  from  her  feelings  and  affections  that 
might  be  given  to  some  one  who  would  make  her  happy 
for  life ;  and  I  think  some  women,  I  don't  mean  you,  of 
course,  but  some  women  I  have  seen  and  heard  of,  like 
to  absorb  all  the  feeling  and  devotion  a  man  has  without 
in  the  least  intending  to  marry  him.  They  keep  him 
from  being  interested  in  any  one  else  who  might  make 
him  a  happy  home,  and  won't  have  him  themselves." 

*'*  Eva,  you  are  too  hard,"  said  Alice. 

"  Understand  me,  dear ;  I  said  I  didn't  mean  you,  for 


402  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS, 

I  think  your  course  has  been  perfectly  honorable  and 
honest  so  far;  but  I  do  think  you  have  got  to  a  place 
that  needs  care.  It's  my  positive  belief  that  Jim  not 
only  loves  you,  Alice,  but  that  he  is  in  love  with  you 
in  a  way  that  will  have  the  most  serious  effect  on  his  life 
and  character."  * 

"Oh,  dear  me,  that's  just  what  I've  been  fearing," 
said  Alice,  "  is  n't  it  too  bad?  I  really  do  n't  think  it's 
my  fault.  Do  you  know,  Eva,  I  came  here  meaning  to 
go  home  to-night,  and  I  stayed  only  because  I  was  afraid 
to  walk  home  with  Jim.  I  was  sure  if  I  did  there  would 
be  a  crisis  of  some  kind." 

"  For  my  part,  Ally,"  said  Eva,  u  I'm  not  so  very  sure 
that  there  hasn't  been  some  advance  in  your  feelings,  as 
well  as  in  Jim's.  I  don't  see  why  you  should  set  it 
down  among  the  impossibles  that  you  should  marry  Jim 
Fellows." 

"Oh!  well,"  said  Alice,  "I  like— yes,  I  really  love 
Jim  very  much ;  he  is  very  agreeable  to  me,  always.  I 
know  nobody,  on  the  whole,  more  so;  but  then,  Eva, 
he's  not  at  all  the  sort  of  man  I  have  ever  thought  of  as 
possible  for  me  to  marry.  Oh !  not  at  all,"  and  Alice 
gazed  before  her  into  the  coals,  as  if  she  saw  her  hero 
through  them. 

"And  what  sort  of  a  man  is  this  phenix  ?" 

"  Oh !  something  grave,  and  deep,  and  high,  and 
heroic." 

Eva  gave  a  light,  little  shrug  to  her  shoulders,  and 
rippled  a  laugh.  "  And  when  you  have  got  such  a  man, 
you  will  have  to  ask  him  to  go  to  market  for  beef  and 
cranberry  sauce.  You  will  have  to  get  him  to  match 
your  worsted,  and  carry  your  parcels,  and  talk  over  with 
him  about  how  to  cure  the  chimney  of  smoking  and 
make  the  kitchen  range  draw.  Don't  you  think  a  hero 
will  be  a  rather  cumbersome  help  in  housekeeping? 


A    CAUCUS  OVER    THE   COALS.  403 

Besides,  your  heroes  like  to  sit  on  pedestals  and  have 
you  worship  them.  Now,  for  my  part,  I'd  rather  have  a 
good  kind  man  that  will  worship  me. 

"'A  creature  not  too  bright  and  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food.' 

A  man  like  Harry,  for  instance.  Harry  isn't  a  hero ; 
he's  a  good,  true,  noble-hearted  boy,  though,  and  I'd 
rather  have  him  than  the  angel  Gabriel,  if  I  could  choose 
now.  I  don't  see  what's  to  object  to  in  Jim,  if  you 
like  him  and  love  him,  as  you  say.  He's  handsome; 
he's  lively  and  cheerful;  he's  kind-hearted  and  obliging; 
and  he's  certainly  true  and  constant  in  his  affections : 
and  now  he  has  a  good  position,  and  one  where  he  can 
do  a  good  work  in  the  world,  and  your  influence  might 
help  him  in  it." 

"  Why,  Eva,  you  seem  to  be  pleading  for  him  like  a 
lawyer,"  said  Alice,  apparently  not  at  all  displeased  to 
hear  that  side  of  the  question  discussed. 

"Well,  really,"  said  Eva,  "I  do  think  it  would  be  a 
nice  thing  for  us  all  if  you  could  like  Jim,  for  he's  one 
of  us;  we  all  know  him  and  like  him,  and  he  wouldn't 
take  you  away  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  ;  you  might  settle 
right  down  here,  and  live  near  us,  and  all  go  on  together 
cosily.  Jim  is  just  the  fellow  to  make  a  bright,  pleasant, 
hospitable  home ;  and  he's  certain  to  be  a  devoted  hus 
band  to  whomever  he  marries." 

"Jim  ought  to  be  married,  certainly,"  said  Alice,  in 
a  reflective  tone.  "Just  the  right  kind  of  a  marriage 
would  be  the  making  of  him." 

"Well,  look  over  the  girls  you  know,  and  see  if  there's 
any  one  that  you  would  like  to  have  Jim  marry." 

"  I  know,"  said  Alice,  with  a  quickened  flush  of 
color,  "that  there  isn't  a  girl  he  cares  a  snap  of  his 
finger  for." 

"There's  Jane  Stuyvesant." 


404  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"Oh,  nonsense!  don't  mention  Jane  Stuyvesant!" 

"Well,  she's  rich,  and  brilliant,  and  very  gracious  to 
Jim." 

"Well,  I  happen  to  know  just  how  much  that 
amounts  to.  Jim  never  would  have  a  serious  thought 
of  Jane  Stuyvesant — that  I'm  certain  of.  She's  a  per 
fectly  frivolous  girl,  and  he  knows  it." 

''I've  thought  sometimes  he  was  quite  attentive  to 
one  of  those  Stephenson  girls,  at  Aunt  Maria's." 

"What,  Sophia  Stephenson !  You  could  n't  have  got 
more  out  of  the  way.  Why,  no!  Why,  she's  nothing 
but  a  breathing  wax  doll ;  that's  all  there  is  to  her.  Jim 
never  could  care  for  her." 

"  Well,  what  was  it  about  that  Miss  Du  Hare  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  at  all,  except  that  she  was  a  dashing, 
flirting  young  thing  that  took  a  fancy  to  Jim  and  invited 
him  to  her  opera  box,  and  of  course  Jim  went.  The  fact 
is,  Jim  is  good-looking  and  lively  and  gay,  and  will  go  a 
certain  way  with  any  nice  girl.  He  likes  to  have  a  jolly, 
good  time ;  but  he  has  his  own  thoughts  about  them  all, 
as  I  happen  to  know.  There  is  n't  one  of  these  that  he 
has  a  serious  thought  of." 

"  Well,  then,  darling,  since  nobody  else  will  suit  him, 
and  it's  for  his  soul's  health  and  wealth  to  be  married, 
I  don't  see  but  you  ought  to  undertake  him  yourself." 

Alice  smiled  thoughtfully,  and  twisted  her  sash  into 
various  bows,  in  an  abstracted  manner. 

"You  see,"  continued  Eva,  "that  it  would  be  alto 
gether  improper  for  you  to  enact  the  fable  of  the  dog  in 
the  manger — neither  take  him  yourself  nor  let  any  one 
else  have  him." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  Alice,  flushing  up,  "he  has  my 
free  consent  to  take  anybody  else  he  wants  to ;  only  I 
know  there  isn't  anybody  he  does  want." 

"  Except — "  said  Eva. 


A    CAUCUS  OVER    THE   COALS.  405 

"Well,  except  present  company,"  said  Alice.  "I'll 
tell  you,  Eva,  if  anything  could  incline  me  more  to  such 
a  decision,  it's  the  way  Aunt  Maria  has  talked  about  Jim 
to  me — setting  him  down  as  if  he  was  the  last  and  most 
improbable  parti  I  could  choose ;  and  as  if,  of  course,  I 
never  could  even  think  of  him.  I  don't  see  what  right 
she  has  to  think  so,  when  there  are  girls  a  great  deal 
richer  and  standing  higher  in  fashionable  society  than  I 
do  that  would  have  Jim  in  a  minute,  if  they  could  get 
him.  Jim  is  constantly  beset  with  more  invitations  to 
parties  and  to  go  into  society  than  he  can  at  all  meet, 
and  I  know  there  are  plenty  that  would  be  glad  enough 
to  take  him." 

"  Oh,  but  Aunt  Maria  has  moderated  a  good  deal  as 
to  Jim,  lately,"  said  Eva.  "She  told  me  herself,  the 
other  day,  that  he  really  was  one  of  the  most  gentle 
manly,  agreeable  young  fellows  she  knew  of,  and  said 
what  a  pity  it  was  he  hadn't  a  fortune." 

"Oh,  that  witch  of  a  creature !"  said  Alice,  laughing. 
"  He  has  been  just  amusing  himself  with  getting  round 
Aunt  Maria." 

"  And  I  dare  say,"  said  Eva,  "  that,  if  she  finds  Jim 
has  a  really  good  position,  she  might  at  last  come  to  a 
state  of  resignation.  I  will  say  that  for  Aunt  Maria,  that 
after  fighting  you  for  a  while  she  comes  round  hand 
somely — when  she  is  certain  that  fighting  is  in  vain  ;  but 
the  most  amusing  thing  is  to  see  how  she  has  come  down 
about  Mr.  St.  John's  ritualism.  Think  of  her  actually 
going  up  there  to  church  last  Sunday,  and  not  saying  a 
word  about  the  candles,  or  the  chantings,  or  any  of  the 
abominations !  She  only  remarked  that  she  was  sure  she 
never  heard  a  better  Gospel  sermon  than  Mr.  St.  John 
preached — which  was  true  enough.  Harry  and  I  were 
so  amused  we  could  hardly  keep  our  faces  straight ;  but 
we  said  not  a  word  to  remind  her  of  past  denunciations." 


406  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  The  danger  of  going  to  Rome  is  sensibly  abated,  it 
appears,"  said  Alice. 

*'  Oh,  yes.  I  believe  Aunt  Maria  must  be  cherishing 
distant  visions  of  a  time  when  she  shall  be  aunt  to  Mr. 
St.  John,  and  set  him  all  straight." 

"  She'll  have  her  match  for  once,"  said  Alice,  "  if  she 
has  any  such  intentions." 

"  One  thing  is  a  comfort,"  said  Eva.  "  Aunt  Maria 
has  her  hands  so  full,  getting  up  Angie's  trousseau,  and 
buying  her  sheets  and  towels  and  table-cloths,  and  tear 
ing  all  about,  up  stairs  and  down,  and  through  dark 
alleys,  to  get  everything  of  the  very  best  at  the  smallest 
expense,  that  her  nervous  energies  are  all  used  up,  and 
there  is  less  left  to  be  expended  on  you  and  me.  A  wed 
ding  in  the  family  is  a  godsend  to  us  all," 

The  conversation  here  branched  off  into  an  animated 
discussion  of  some  points  in  Angie's  wedding-dress,  and 
went  on  with  an  increasing  interest  till  it  was  inter 
rupted  by  a  dolorous  voice  from  the  top  of  the  entry 
staircase. 

"  Girls,  have  you  the  least  idea  what  time  it  is  ?" 

"Why,  there's  Harry,  to  be  sure,"  said  Eva.  "Dear 
me,  Alice,  what  time  is  it?" 

"  Half-past  one  !     Mercy  on  us  !  is  n't  it  a  shame  ?" 

"  Coming,  Harry,  coming  this  minute,"  called  Eva,  as 
the  two  sisters  began  turning  down  the  gas  and  raking 
up  the  fire;  then,  gathering  together  collars,  hair-pins, 
ribbons,  sashes  and  scarfs,  they  flew  up  the  stairway,  and 
parted  with  a  suppressed  titter  of  guilty  consciousness. 

"It  was  abominable  of  us,"  said  Eva;  "but  I  never 
looked  at  the  clock." 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

FLUCTUATIONS. 

MIDNIGHT  conversations  of  the  sort  we  have  chron 
icled  between  Alice  and  Eva,  do  not  generally  lead 
to  the  most  quiet  kind  of  sleep.  Such  conversations  sug 
gest  a  great  deal,  and  settle  nothing;  and  Alice,  after 
retiring,  lay  a  long  time  with  her  great  eyes  wide  open, 
looking  into  the  darkness  of  futurity,  and  wondering,  as 
girls  of  twenty-two  or  thereabouts  do  wonder,  what  she 
should  do  next. 

There  is  no  help  for  it;  the  fact  may  as  well  be  con 
fessed  at  once,  that  no  care  and  assiduity  in  fencing  and 
fortifying  the  conditions  of  a  friendship  between  an 
attractive  young  woman  and  a  lively,  energetic  young 
man,  will  ensure  their  always  remaining  simply  and 
purely  those  of  companionship  and  good  fellowship,  and 
never  becoming  anything  more. 

In  the  case  of  St.  John  and  Angie,  the  stalk  of  friend 
ship  had  had  but  short  growth  before  developing  the 
flower  of  love ;  and  now,  in  Alice's  mind  and  conscience, 
it  was  becoming  quite  a  serious  and  troublesome  question 
whether  a  similar  result  were  not  impending  over  her. 

The  wise  man  of  old  said  :  "  He  that  delicately  bring- 
eth  up  his  servant  from  a  child  shall  have  him  for  his  son 
at  last."  The  proverb  is  significant,  as  showing  the 
gradual  growth  of  kindly  relations  into  something  more 
and  more  kindly,  and  more  absorbing. 

So,  in  the  night-watches,  Alice  mentally  reviewed  all 
those  looks,  words  and  actions  of  Jim's  which  produced 
a  conviction  in  her  mind  that  he  was  passing  beyond  the 


408  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

allotted  boundaries,  and  approaching  towards  a  point  in 
which  there  would  inevitably  be  a  crisis,  calling  for  a 
decision  on  her  part  which  should  make  him  either  more 
or  less  than  he  had  been.  Her  talk  with  Eva  had  only 
set  this  possibility  more  distinctly  before  her. 

Was  she,  then,  willing  to  give  him  up  entirely,  and 
to  shut  the  door  resolutely  on  all  intimacy  tending  to 
keep  up  and  encourage  feelings  that  could  come  to  no 
result  ?  When  she  proposed  this  to  herself,  she  was  sur 
prised  at  her  own  unwillingness  to  let  him  go.  She 
could  scarcely  fancy  herself  able  to  do  without  his  ready 
friendship,  his  bright,  agreeable  society — without  the 
sense  of  ownership  and  power  which  she  felt  in  him. 
Reviewing  the  matter  strictly  in  the  night-watches,  she 
was  obliged  to  admit  to  herself  that  she  could  not  afford 
to  part  with  Jim;  that  there  was  no  woman  she  could 
fancy — certainly  none  in  the  circle  of  her  acquaintance — 
whom  she  could  be  sincerely  glad  to  have  him  married 
to;  and  when  she  fancied  him  absorbed  in  any  one  else, 
there  was  a  dreary  sense  of  loss  which  surprised  her. 
Was  it  possible,  she  asked  herself,  that  he  had  become 
necessary  to  her  happiness — he  whom  she  never  thought 
of  otherwise  than  as  a  pleasant  friend,  a  brother,  for 
whose  success  and  good  fortune  she  had  interested  her 
self? 

Well  then,  was  she  ready  for  an  engagement  ?  Was 
the  great  ultimate  revelation  of  woman's  life — that  dark 
Eleusinian  mystery  of  fate  about  which  vague  conjecture 
loves  to  gather,  and  which  the  imagination  invests  with 
all  sorts  of  dim  possibilities — suddenly  to  draw  its  cur 
tains  and  disclose  to  her  neither  demi-god  nor  hero,  but 
only  the  well-known,  every-day  features  of  one  with 
whom  she  had  been  walking  side  by  side  for  months 
past — "only  Jim  and  nothing  more?" 

Alice  could  not  but  acknowledge  to  herself  that  she 


FL  UCTUA  TIONS.  409 

knew  no  man  possible  or  probable  that  she  liked  better; 
and  yet  this  shadowy,  ideal  rival — this  cross  between 
saint  and  hero,  this  Knight  of  the  Holy  Grail — was  as 
embarrassing  to  her  conclusions  as  the  ghost  in  "  Ham 
let  "  It  was  only  to  be  considered  that  the  ideal  hero 
had  not  put  in  an  actual  appearance.  He  was  nowhere 
to  be  found  or  heard  from ;  and  here  was  this  warm 
hearted,  helpful,  companionable  Jim,  with  faults  as  plenty 
as  blackberries,  but  with  dozens  of  agreeable  qualities  to 
every  fault ;  and  the  time  seemed  to  be  rapidly  coming 
when  she  must  make  up  her  mind  either  to  take  him  or 
leave  him,  and  she  was  not  ready  to  do  either!  No 
wonder  she  lay  awake,  and  studied  the  squares  of  the 
dim  window  and  listened  to  the  hours  that  struck,  one 
after  another,  bringing  her  no  nearer  to  fixed  conclusions 
than  before !  A  young  lady  who  sees  the  time  coming 
when  she  must  make  a  decision,  and  who  does  n't  want  to 
take  either  alternative  presented,  is  certainly  to  be  pitied. 
Alice  felt  herself  an  abused  and  afflicted  young  woman. 
She  murmured  at  destiny.  Why  would  men  fall  in  love  ? 
she  queried.  Why  would  n't  they  remain  always  devoted, 
admiring  friends,  and  get  no  further?  She  was  having 
such  good  times !  and  why  must  they  end  in  a  dilemma 
of  this  sort  ?  How  nice  to  have  a  gentleman  friend,  all 
devotion,  all  observance,  all  homage,  without  its  involv 
ing  any  special  consequences ! 

When  she  came  to  shape  this  feeling  into  words  and 
look  at  it,  she  admitted  that  it  savored  of  the  worst  kind 
of  selfishness,  and  might  lead  to  trifling  with  what  is 
most  precious  and  sacred.  Alice  was  a  conscientious, 
honorable  girl,  and  felt  all  the  force  of  this.  She  had 
justified  herself  all  along  by  saying  that  her  intimacy 
with  Jim  had  so  far  been  for  his  good ;  that  he  had  often 
expressed  to  her  his  sense  that  she  was  leading  him  to  a 
higher  and  better  life,  to  more  worthy  and  honorable 
s 


410  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

aims  and  purposes :  but  how  if  he  should  claim  that 
this  very  ministry  had  made  her  necessary  to  him,  and 
that,  if  she  threw  him  off,  it  would  be  worse  than  if  she 
had  never  known  him?  Looking  over  the  history  of 
the  last  few  months,  she  could  not  deny  to  herself  that, 
as  their  acquaintance  had  grown  more  and  more  confi 
dential,  her  manners  possibly  had  expressed  a  degree  of 
kindness  which  might  justly  have  inspired  hopes.  Was 
she  not  bound  to  fulfill  such  hopes  if  she  could  ? 

These  were  most  uncomfortable  inquiries,  and  she 
was  glad  of  morning  and  a  cheerful  breakfast-table  to 
dispel  them.  Things  never  look  so  desperate  by  day 
light,  and  Alice  managed  a  good  breakfast  with  a  toler 
able  appetite.  Then  there  was  the  tarlatan  dress  to  be 
made  over  and  rearranged,  and  Eva's  toilette  to  be  put 
into  party  order — quite  enough  to  keep  two  young  women 
of  active  fancy  and  skillful  fingers  busy  for  one  day.  It 
was  a  snowy,  unpleasant  day,  and,  as  they  lived  on  an 
out-of-the-way  street,  they  were  secure  from  callers  and 
took  their  work  into  the  parlor  so  soon  as  Harry  had 
gone  for  the  day.  The  little  room  soon  became  a 
brilliant  maelstrom  of  gauzy  stuffs  and  bright  ribbons, 
among  which  the  two  sat  chatting,  arranging,  combining, 
compounding;  as  of  old,  one  might  imagine  a  pair  of 
heathen  goddesses  in  the  clouds,  getting  up  rainbows. 
No  matter  how  solemn  and  serious  we  of  womankind 
are  in  our  deepest  hearts,  or  how  philosophically  we 
may  look  down  on  the  vanity  of  dress,  we  must  all 
confess  that  a  party  is  a  party ;  and  the  sensible,  eco 
nomical  woman  who  does  not  often  go;  and  does  not 
make  a  point  of  having  all  the  paraphernalia  in  constant 
readiness,  has  to  give  all  the  more  care  and  thought  to 
the  exceptional  occasion  when  she  does.  Even  Script 
ure  recognizes  the  impossibility  of  appearing  at  a  feast 
without  the  appropriate  garment;  and  so  Eva  and  Alice 


FL  UCTUA  TIONS.  41  \ 

cut  and  fitted  and  trimmed  and  tried  experiments  in 
head-dresses  and  arrangements  of  hair,  and  meanwhile 
Alice  had  the  comfort  of  talking  over  and  over  to  Eva 
all  the  varying  shades  of  the  subject  that  was  on  her 
mind. 

What  woman  does  not  appreciate  the  blessing  of  a 
patient,  sympathetic  listener,  who  will  hear  with  unabated 
interest  the  same  story  repeated  over  and  over  as  it  rises 
in  one's  thoughts?  Eva  listened  complacently  and  with 
the  warmest  interest  to  the  same  things  that  Alice  had 
said  the  night  before,  and  went  on  repeating  to  her  the 
same  lessons  of  matronly  wisdom  with  which  she  had 
then  enriched  her,  neither  of  them  betraying  the  slightest 
consciousness  that  the  things  they  were  saying  were  not 
just  fresh  from  the  mint — entirely  new  and  hitherto 
unconsidered. 

Jim's  character  was  discussed,  and  with  that  fine, 
skillful  faculty  of  analysis  and  synthesis  which  forms 
the  distinctive  interest  of  feminine  conversation.  In 
the  course  of  these  various  efforts  of  character  portrait- 
painting,  it  became  quite  evident  to  Eva  that  Alice  was 
in  just  that  state  in  which  some  people's  admitted  faults 
are  more  interesting  and  agreeable  than  the  virtues  of 
some  others.  When  a  woman  gets  thus  far,  her  final 
decision  is  not  a  matter  of  doubt  to  any  far-sighted 
reader  of  human  nature. 

Alice  was  by  nature  exact  and  conscientious  as  to  all 
rules,  forms,  and  observances.  Her  pronunciation, 
whether  of  English  or  French,  was  critically  perfect ;  her 
hand-writing  and  composition  were  faultless  to  a  comma. 
She  was  an  enthusiastic  and  thorough  maintainer  of  all 
the  boundaries  and  forms  of  good  society  and  of  churchly 
devotion.  Jim,  without  being  in  any  sense  really  im 
moral  or  wicked,  was  a  sort  of  privileged  Arab,  careering 
in  and  out  through  the  boundaries  of  all  departments, 


WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

shocking  respectable  old  prejudices  and  fluttering  rever 
ential  usages,  talking  slang  and  making  light  of  dignita 
ries  with  a  free  and  easy  handling  that  was  alarming. 

But  it  is  a  fact  that  very  correct  people,  who  would 
not  violate  in  their  own  persons  one  of  the  convenances, 
are  often  exceedingly  amused  and  experience  a  peculiar 
pleasure  in  seeing  them  tossed  hither  and  thither  by 
somebody  else.  Nothing  is  so  tiresome  as  perfect  cor 
rectness,  and  we  all  know  that  everything  that  amuses 
us  and  makes  us  laugh  lies  outside  of  it;  and  Alice,  if 
the  truth  were  to  be  told,  liked  Jim  all  the  better  for  the 
very  things  in  which  he  was  most  unlike  herself.  Well, 
such  being  the  state  of  the  garrison  on  the  one  side, 
what  was  the  position  of  the  attacking  party  ? 

Jim  had  gone  home  discontented  at  not  having  a 
private  interview  with  Alice,  but  more  and  more  re 
solved,  with  every  revolving  hour  since  the  accession  of 
good  fortune  which  had  given  him  a  settled  position, 
that  he  would  have  a  home  of  his  own  forthwith,  and 
that  the  queen  of  that  home  should  be  Alice  Van  Arsdel. 
She  must  not,  she  could  not,  she  would  not  say  him 
Nay;  and  if  she  did,  he  wouldn't  take  No  for  an  an 
swer.  He  would  have  her,  if  he  had  to  serve  for  her  as 
long  as  Jacob  did  for  Rachel.  But  when  Jim  remem 
bered  how  many  times  he  had  persuaded  Alice  to  his 
own  way,  how  many  favors  she  had  granted  him,  he  was 
certain  that  it  was  not  in  her  to  refuse.  He  had  looked 
with  new  interest  at  the  advertisements  of  houses  to 
let,  and  the  furniture  stores  for  the  last  few  days  had 
worn  a  new  and  suggestive  aspect.  He  had  commenced 
transactions  with  regard  to  parlor  furniture,  and  actually 
bought  a  pair  of  antique  brass  andirons,  which  he  was 
sure  would  be  just  the  thing  for  their  fireside.  Then 
he  had  bought  an  engagement  ring,  which  lay  snugly  en 
sconced  in  its  satin  case  in  a  corner  of  his  vest  pocket, 


FL  UCTUA  TIONS.  413 

and  he  was  inly  resolved  that  he  would  make  to  him 
self  a  chance  to  lodge  it  on  the  proper  finger  in  the 
next  twenty-four  hours.  How  he  was  to  get  an  inter 
view  did  not  yet  appear;  but  he  trusted  to  Providence. 
It  is  a  fact  on  record,  that  before  the  twenty-four  hours 
were  up  the  deed  was  done,  and  Jim  and  Alice  were  en 
gaged;  but  it  came  about  in  a  way  far  different  from 
any  foreseen  by  any  party,  as  we  shall  proceed  to  show. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE  VALLEY  OS  THE  SHADOW. 

IT  wanted  yet  twenty  minutes  to  eight  o'clock,  and  Jim 
was  sitting  alone  in  the  glow  of  the  evening  fireside. 
The  warm,  red  light,  flickering  and  shadowing,  made  the 
room  seem  like  a  mysterious  grotto.  Jim,  in  best  paity 
trim,  sat  gazing  dreamily  into  the  fire,  turning  the  magic 
ring  now  and  then  in  his  vest  pocket,  and  looking  at  his 
watch  at  intervals,  while  the  mysterious  rites  of  the  toilet 
were  going  on  upstairs. 

Alice  had  never  made  a  more  elaborate  or  more  care 
ful  toilet.  Did  she  want  to  precipitate  that  which  she 
said  to  herself  she  dreaded  ?  Certainly  she  did  not  spare 
one  possible  attraction.  She  evidently  saw  no  reason, 
under  present  circumstances,  why  she  should  not  make 
herself  look  as  well  as  she  could. 

As  the  result  of  the  whole  day's  agitations  and  dis 
cussions,  she  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  if  Jim  had 
anything  to  say  she  would  listen  to  it  advisedly,  and  take 
it  into  mature  consideration.  So  she  braided  her  long,  - 
dark  hair,  and  crowned  herself  therewith,  and  then  ear 
rings  and  brooches  came  twinkling  out  here  and  there 
like  stars,  and  bits  of  ribbon  and  velvet  fluttered  hither 
and  thither,  and  fell  into  wonderfully  apposite  places,  and 
the  woman  grew  and  brightened  before  the  glass,  as  a 
picture  under  the  hands  of  the  artist. 

It  wanted  yet  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  the  time  for  the 
carriage,  when  there  came  a  light  fluff  of  gauzy  gar 
ments,  and  the  two  party  goddesses  floated  in  in  all  misty 
splendor,  and  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  room  with  the 
flutter  of  dresses. 


THE    VALLEY  OF   THE  SHADOW.  415 

Alice  was  radiant;  her  eyes  were  never  more  brill 
iant,  and  she  was  full  of  that  subtle  brightness  which 
comes  from  the  tremor  of  fully-awakened  feeling.  She 
was  gayer  than  was  her  usual  wont  as  she  swept  about 
the  room  and  courteseyed  with  much  solemnity  to  Jim, 
and  turned  herself  round  and  round  after  the  manner  of 
a  revolving  figure  in  the  shop  windows. 

Suddenly — and  none  of  them  knew  how — there  was 
a  quick  flash  ;  the  gauzy  robe  had  swept  into  the  fire,  and, 
before  any  of  them  could  speak,  the  dress  was  in  flames. 
There  was  a  scream,  an  utterance  of  agony  from  all  par 
ties  at  once,  and  Eva  was  just  doing  the  most  fatal  thing 
possible  in  rushing  desperately  towards  her  sister,  when 
Jim  came  between  them,  caught  the  woolen  cloth  from  the 
table,  and  wrapped  it  around  Alice ;  then,  taking  her  in 
his  arms,  he  laid  her  on  the  sofa,  and  crushed  out  the  fire, 
beating  it  with  his  hands,  and  tearing  the  burning  frag 
ments  away  and  casting  them  under  foot.  It  all  passed 
in  one  fearful,  awe-struck  moment,  while  Eva  stood  still, 
with  the  very  shadow  of  death  upon  her,  and  saw  Jim 
fighting  back  the  fire,  which  in  a  moment  or  two  was 
entirely  extinguished.  Alice  had  fainted,  and  Jim  and 
Eva  looked  at  each  other  as  people  do  who  have  just 
seen  death  rising  up  between  them. 

"  She  is  safe  now,"  said  Jim,  as  he  stood  there,  pale 
as  death  and  quivering  from  head  to  foot,  while  the  floor 
around  was  strewed  with  the  blackened  remains  of  the 
gauzy  material  which  he  had  torn  away.  "  She  is  all 
right,"  he  added;  "the  cloth  has  saved  her  throat  and 
lungs." 

It  seemed  now  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
that  Jim  should  lay  Alice's  head  upon  his  arm  and 
administer  restoratives ;  and,  when  she  opened  her  eyes, 
that  he  should  call  her  .his  darling,  his  life,  his  love. 
They  had  been  in  the  awful  valley  of  the  shadow  to- 


416  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

gather — that  valley  where  all  that  is  false  perishes  and 
drops  off,  and  what  is  true  becomes  the  only  reality. 
Alice  felt  that  she  loved  Jim — that  she  belonged  to  him, 
and  she  did  not  dispute  his  right  to  speak  as  he  did, 
and  to  care  for  her  as  one  had  a  right  to  care  for  his  own. 

"Well,"  said  Eva,  drawing  a  long  breath,  when  the 
bell  rang  and  the  carriage  was  announced,  "  we  cannot 
go  to  the  party,  that  is  certain  ;  and,  Jim,  tell  him  to  go 
for  Doctor  Campbell.  Mary,  bring  down  a  wrapper; 
we'll  slip  it  over  your  torn  finery,  Alice,  for  the  present," 
said  Eva,  endeavoring  to  be  practical  and  self-possessed, 
though  with  a  little  hysterical  sob  every  now  and  then 
betraying  the  shock  to  her  nerves.  "  Then  there  must 
be  a  note  sent  to  Aunt  Maria,  or  what  will  she  think?" 
pursued  Eva,  when  Alice  had  been  made  comfortable  on 
the  sofa,  where  Jim  was  devoting  himself  to  her. 

"Don't,  pray,  tell  all  about  it,"  said  Alice.  "One 
does  n't  want  to  become  the  talk  of  all  New  York." 

"  I'll  tell  her  that  you  have  met  with  an  accident 
that  will  detain  you  and  me,  but  that  you  are  not  dan 
gerous/'  said  Eva,  as  she  wrote  her  note  and  sent  Mary 
up  with  it, 

It  was  not  until  tranquillity  had  somewhat  settled 
down  on  the  party  that  Jim  began  to  feel  that  his  own 
hands  were  blistered  ;  for,  though  a  man  under  strong 
excitement  may  handle  fire  for  a  while  and  not  feel  it, 
yet  nature  keeps  account  and  brings  in  her  bill  in  due 
season. 

"  Why,  Jim,  you  brave  fellow,"  said  Alice,  suddenly 
raising  herself,  as  she  saw  an  expression  of  pain  on  his 
face,  "  here  I  am  thinking  only  of  myself,  and  you  are 
suffering." 

"Oh,  nothing;  nothing  at  all,"  said  Jim;  but  Eva 
and  Alice,  now  thoroughly  aroused,  were  shocked  at  the 
state  of  his  hands. 


THE    VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW.  417 

"The  doctor  will  have  you  to  attend  to  first,"  said 
Alice,  "You  have  saved  me  by  sacrificing  yourself." 

"Thank  God  for  that!"  said  Jim,  fervently. 

Well,  the  upshot  of  the  story  is  that  Eva  would  not 
hear  of  Jim's  leaving  them  that  night.  Doctor  Camp 
bell  pronounced  that  the  burns  on  his  hands  needed 
serious  attention,  and  the  prospect  was  that  he  would 
be  obliged  to  rest  from  using  them  for  a  day  or  two. 

But  these  two  or  three  days  of  hospital  care  were  not 
on  the  whole  the  worst  of  Jim's  life,  for  Alice  insisted  on 
being  his  amanuensis,  and  writing  his  editorials  for  him, 
and,  as  she  wrote  with  the  engagement  ring  sparkling  on 
her  finger,  Jim  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  it  appear 
to  so  great  advantage.  It  was  said  that  Jim's  editorials, 
that  week,  had  a  peculiar  vigor  and  pungency.  We 
should  not  at  all  wonder,  under  the  circumstances,  if 
that  were  the  case. 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

WHAT    THEY    ALL    SAID    ABOUT    IT. 

AND  so  Jim  Fellows  and  Alice  Van  Arsdel  were 
engaged  at  last.  The  reader  who  has  cared  to 
follow  the  workings  of  that  young  lady's  mind  has  doubt 
less  seen  from  the  first  that  she  was  on  the  straight  high 
way  to  such  a  result. 

Intimate  friendship — what  the  French  call  "cama 
raderie" — is,  in  fact,  the  healthiest  and  the  best  com 
mencement  of  the  love  that  is  needed  in  married  life ; 
because  it  is  more  like  what  the  staple  of  married  life 
must  at  last  come  to.  It  gives  opportunity  for  the 
knowledge  of  all  those  minor  phases  of  character  under 
which  a  married  couple  must  at  last  see  each  other. 

Alice  and  Jim  had  been  side  by  side  in  many  an 
every-day  undress  rehearsal.  They  had  laughed  and 
frolicked  together  like  two  children;  they  had  known 
each  other's  secrets ;  they  had  had  their  little  miffs  and 
tiffs,  and  had  gotten  over  them;  but,  through  all,  there 
had  been  a  steady  increase  on  Jim's  part  of  that  deeper 
feeling  which  makes  a  woman  the  ideal  guide  and 
governor  and  the  external  conscience  of  life.  But  his 
habit  of  jesting,  and  of  talking  along  the  line  of  his  most 
serious  feelings  in  language  running  between  joke  and 
earnest,  had  prevented  the  pathos  and  the  power  of 
what  was  really  deepest  in  him  from  making  itself  felt. 
There  wanted  something  to  call  forth  the  expression  of 
the  deep  manly  feeling  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart.  There  wanted,  on  her  part,  something  to  change 
friendship  to  a  warmer  feeling.  Those  few  dreadful 


WHAT  THEY  ALL   SAID  ABOUT  IT.  419 

moments,  when  they  stood  under  the  cloud  of  a  sudden 
and  frightful  danger,  did  more  to  reveal  to  them  how 
much  they  were  to  each  other  than  years  of  ordinary 
acquaintance.  It  was  as  if  they  had  crossed  the  river  of 
death  together,  and  saw  each  other  in  their  higher 
natures.  Do  we  not  all  remember  how  suffering  and 
danger  will  bring  out  in  well-known  faces  a  deep  and 
spiritual  expression  never  there  before  ?  It  was  a  mark 
ed  change  in  the  faces  of  our  boys  who  went  to  the 
recent  war.  Looking  in  a  photograph  book,  one  sees 
first  the  smooth  lines  of  a  boyish  face  indicating  nothing 
more  than  a  boy's  experience,  but,  as  he  turns  the  fol 
lowing  pages,  he  sees  the  same  face,  after  suffering  and 
danger  and  death  have  called  up  the  strength  of  the 
inner  man,  and  imparted  a  higher  and  more  spiritual 
expression  to  the  countenance. 

The  sudden  nearness  into  which  they  had  come  to 
the  ever  possible  tragedy  that  underlies  human  life,  had 
given  a  deep  and  solemn  tenderness  to  their  affection. 
It  was  a  baptism  into  the  love  which  is  stronger  than 
death.  Alice  felt  her  whole  heart  going  out,  without  a 
fear  or  a  doubt,  in  return  for  the  true  love  that  she  felt 
was  ready  to  die  for  her. 

Those  few  first  days  that  they  spent  mostly  in  each 
other's  society,  were  full  of  the  real,  deep,  enthusiastic 
tenderness  of  that  understanding  of  each  other  which 
had  suddenly  arisen  between  them. 

So,  to  her  confidential  female  correspondent — the 
one  who  had  always  held  her  promise  to  be  the  first 
recipient  of  the  news  of  her  engagement — she  wrote  as 
follows : 

"  Yes,  dear  Belle,  I  have  to  tell  you  at  last  that  I  am  engaged — 
engaged,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  to  Jim  Fellows.  I  see  your 
wonder,  I  hear  you  saying,  '  You  said  it  never  was  to  be  ;  that  there 
never  would  be  anything  in  it.'  Well,  dear  Belle,  when  I  said  that 


430  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

I  thought  it ;  but  it  seems  I  didn't  know  myself  or  him.  But  Eva 
has  told  you  of  the  dreadful  danger  I  ran  ;  the  shock  to  my  nerves, 
the  horror,  the  fright,  were  something  I  never  shall  forget.  By 
God's  mercy  he  saved  my  life,  and  I  saw  and  felt  at  that  time  how 
dear  I  was  to  him,  and  how  much  he  was  willing  to  suffer  for  me. 
The  poor  fellow  is  not  yet  fully  recovered,  and  I  cannot  recall  that 
sudden  fright  without  being  almost  faint.  I  cared  a  good  deal  for 
him  before,  and  knew  he  cared  for  me  ;  but  this  dreadful  shock 
revealed  us  to  each  other  as  we  had  never  known  each  other  before. 
1  am  perfectly  settled  now  and  have  not  a  doubt.  There  is  all  the 
seriousness  and  all  the  depth  that  is  in  me  in  the  promise  I  have  at 
last  given  him. 

"Jim  is  not  rich,  but  he  has  just  obtained  a  good  position  as  one 
of  the  leading  editors  of  the  Forum,  enough  to  make  it  prudent  for 
him  to  think  of  having  a  home  of  his  own  ;  and  I  thank  God  for  the 
reverses  of  fortune  that  have  taught  me  how  to  be  a  helpful  and  sen 
sible  wife.  We  don't  either  of  us  care  for  show  or  fashion,  but  mean 
to  have  another  fireside  like  Eva's.  Exactly  when  this  thing  is  to 
be,  is  not  yet  settled ;  but  you  shall  have  due  notice  to  get  your 
bridesmaid's  dress  ready.'' 

So  wrote  Alice  to  her  bridesmaid  that  was  to  be. 
Meanwhile,  the  declared  engagement  went  its  way,  trav 
eling  through  the  circle,  making  everywhere  its  sensation. 

We  believe  there  is  nothing  so  generally  interesting 
to  human  nature  as  a  newly-declared  engagement.  It  is 
a  thing  that  everybody  has  an  opinion  of;  and  the  edi 
torial  comments,  though  they  do  not  go  into  print,  are 
fully  as  numerous  and  as  positive  as  those  following  a 
new  appointment  at  Washington. 

Especially  is  this  the  case  where  the  parties,  being 
long  under  suspicion  and  accusation,  have  denied  the 
impeachment,  and  vehemently  protested  that  "  there  was, 
and  there  would  be,  nothing  in  it,"  and  that  "  it  was  only 
friendship."  When,  after  all  the  strength  of  such  assev 
eration,  the  flag  is  finally  struck,  and  the  suspected  par 
ties  walk  forth  openly,  hand  in  hand,  what  a  number  of 
people  immediately  rise  in  their  own  opinion,  saying  with 
complacency  :  "  There  !  what  did  I  tell  you  ?  I  knew  it 


WHAT   THEY  ALL   SAID  ABOUT  IT.          421 

was-  so.     People  may  talk  as  much  as  they  please,  they 
can't  deceive  me!" 

Among  the  first  to  receive  the  intelligence  was  little 
Mrs.  Betsey,  who,  having  been  over  with  Jack  to  make  a 
morning  call  at  the  Henderson  house,  had  her  very  cap 
lifted  from  her  head  with  amazement  at  the  wonderful 
news.  So,  panting  with  excitement,  she  rushed  back 
across  the  way  to  astonish  Miss  Dorcas,  and  burst  in 
upon  her,  with  Jack  barking  like  a  storming  party  in  the 
rear. 

"  Good  gracious,  Betsey,  what's  the  matter  now  ?"  said 
Miss  Dorcas.  "What  has  happened?" 

"Well,  what  should  you  think?  You  can't  guess! 
Jack,  be  still !  stop  barking!  Stop,  sir!" — as  Jack  ran 
under  a  chair  in  a  distant  corner  of  the  room,  and  fired 
away  with  contumacious  energy. 

"  Yes,  Dorcas,  I  have  such  a  piece  of  news !  I 
declare,  that  dog! — I'll  kill  him  if  he  don't  stop!"  and 
Mrs.  Betsey,  on  her  knees,  dragged  Jack  out  of  his 
hiding-place,  and  cuffed  him  into  silence,  and  then  went 
on  with  her  news,  which  she  determined  to  make  the 
most  of,  and  let  out  a  bit  at  a  time,  as  children  eat  gin 
gerbread. 

"  Well,  now,  Betsey,  since  the  scuffle  is  over  between 
you  and  Jack,  perhaps  you  will  tell  me  what  all  this  is 
about,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  with  dignity. 

"Well,  Dorcas,  it's  another  engagement;  and  who  do 
you  guess  it  is?  You  never  will  guess  in  the  world,  I 
know;  now  guess." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  critically  survey 
ing  Mrs.  Betsey  over  her  spectacles,  "  unless  it  is  you 
and  old  Major  Galbraith." 

"Aren't  you  ashamed,  Dorcas?"  said  the  little  old 
lady,  two  late  pink  roses  coming  in  either  cheek.  "  Major 
Galbraith  ! — old  and  deaf  and  with  the  rheumatism  !" 


422  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"Well,  you  wanted  me  to  guess,  and  I  guessed -the 
two  most  improbable  people  in  the  circle  of  our  acquaint 
ance."  Now,  Major  Galbraith  was  an  old  admirer  of 
Mrs.  Betsey's  youth,  an  ancient  fossil  remain  of  the 
distant  period  to  which  Miss  Dorcas  and  Mrs.  Betsey 
belonged. 

He  was  an  ancient  bachelor,  dwelling  in  an  ancient 
house  on  Murray  hill,  and  subsisting  on  the  dry  hay  of 
former  recollections.  Once  a  year,  on  Christmas  or 
New  Year's,  the  old  major  caused  himself  to  be  brought 
carefully  in  a  carriage  to  the  door  of  the  Vanderheyden 
house,  creaked  laboriously  up  the  steps,  pulled  the  rusty, 
jangling  old  bell,  and  was  shown  into  the  somber  twi 
light  of  the  front  parlor,  where  he  paid  his  respects  to 
the  ladies  with  the  high-shouldered,  elaborate  stateliness 
and  gallantry  of  a  former  period.  The  compliments 
which  the  major  brought  out  on  these  occasions  were  of 
the  most  elaborate  and  well-considered  kind,  for  he  had 
an  abundance  of  leisure  to  compose  them,  and  very  few 
ladies  to  let  them  off  upon.  They  had,  for  the  parties  to 
whom  they  were  addressed,  all  the  value  of  those  late 
roses  and  violets  which  one  now  and  then  finds  in  the 
garden,  when  the  last  black  frosts  have  picked  off  the 
blooms  of  summer.  The  main  difficulty  of  the  interview 
always  was  the  fact  that  the  poor  major  was  stone-deaf, 
and,  in  spite  of  both  ladies  screaming  themselves  hoarse, 
he  carried  away  the  most  obviously  erroneous  impressions, 
to  last  him  through  the  next  year.  Yet,  in  ages  past,  the 
major  had  been  a  man  of  high  fashion,  and  he  was,  if 
one  only  could  get  at  him,  on  many  accounts  better 
worth  talking  to  than  many  modern  beaux ;  but  as  age 
and  time  had  locked  him  in  a  case  and  thrown  away  the 
key,  the  suggestion  of  tender  relations  between  him  and 
Mrs.  Betsey  was  impossible  enough  to  answer  Miss  Dor 
cas's  purpose. 


WHAT   THEY  ALL   SAID  ABOUT  IT.          423 

But  Mrs.  Betsey  was  bursting  to  begin  on  the  con 
tents  of  her  news-bag,  and  so,  out  it  came. 

"  Well  now,  Dorcas,  if  you  won't  go  to  being  ridicu 
lous,  and  talking  about  Major  Galbraith,  I'll  tell  you 
who  it  is.  It's  that  dear,  good  Mr.  Fellows  that  got 
Jack  back  again  for  us,  and  I'm  sure  I  never  feel  as  if 
I  could  do  enough  for  him  when  I  think  of  it,  and  be 
sides  that,  he  always  is  so  polite  and  considerate,  and 
talks  with  one  so  nicely  and  is  so  attentive,  seems  to 
think  something  of  you,  if  you  are  an  old  woman,  so 
that  I'm  glad  with  all  my  heart,  for  I  think  it's  a 
splendid  thing,  and  she's  just  the  one  for  him,  and  do 
you  know  I've  been  thinking  a  great  while  that  it  was 
going  to  be  ?  I  have  noticed  signs,  and  have  had  my 
own  thoughts,  but  I  didn't  let  on.  I  despise  people  that 
are  always  prying  and  spying  and  expressing  opinions 
before  they  know." 

This  lucid  exposition  might  have  proceeded  at  greater 
length,  had  not  Miss  Dorcas,  whose  curiosity  was  now 
fully  roused,  cut  into  the  conversation  with  an  air  of 
judicial  decision. 

"  Well  now,  after  all,  Betsey,  will  you  have  the  good 
ness,  since  you  began  to  tell  the  news,  to  tell  it  like  a 
reasonable  creature?  Mr.  Fellows  is  the  happy  man, 
you  say.  Now,  who — is — the  woman?'1 

"  Oh,  did  n't  I  tell  you  ?  Why,  what  is  the  matter 
with  me  to-day?  I  thought  I  said  Miss  Alice  Van 
Arsdel.  Won't  she  make  him  a  splendid  wife?  and  I'm 
sure  he'll  make  a  good  husband ;  he's  so  kind-hearted. 
Oh !  you  ought  to  have  seen  how  kind  he  was  to  Jack 
that  day  he  brought  him  back ;  and  such  a  sight  as  Jack 
was,  too — all  dirt  and  grease !  Why  it  took  Dinah  and 
me  at  least  two  hours  to  get  him  clean,  and  there  are  not 
many  young  gentlemen  that  would  be  so  patient  as  he 
was.  I  never  shall  forget  it  of  him." 


424  WE  AND   OUR   NEIGHBORS. 

"  Patient  as  who  was?"  said  Miss  Dorcas.  "  I  believe 
Jack  was  the  last  nominative  case  in  that  sentence ;  do 
pray  compose  yourself,  Betsey,  and  don't  take  entire 
leave  of  your  senses." 

"  I  mean  Mr.  Fellows  was  patient,  of  course,  you 
know." 

"Well,  then,  do  take  a  little  pains  to  say  what  you 
mean,"  said  Miss  Dorcas. 

"  Well,  don't  you  think  it  a  good  thing — and  were  you 
expecting  it?" 

"  So  far  as  I  know  the  parties,  it's  as  good  a  thing  as 
engagements  in  general,"  said  Miss  Dorcas.  "  They  have 
my  very  best  wishes." 

"Well,  did  you  ever  think  it  would  come  about?" 

"  No ;  I  never  troubled  my  head  with  speculations 
on  what  plainly  is  none  of  my  concern,"  said  Miss 
Dorcas. 

It  was  evident  that  Miss  Dorcas  was  on  the  highest 
and  most  serene  mountain-top  of  propriety  this  morn 
ing,  and  all  her  words  and  actions  indicated  that  calm 
superiority  to  vulgar  curiosity  which,  in  her  view,  was 
befitting  a  trained  lady.  Perhaps  a  little  pique  that 
Betsey  had  secured  such  a  promising  bit  of  news  in 
advance  of  herself,  added  to  her  virtuous  frigidity  of 
demeanor.  We  are  all  mortal,  and  the  best  of  us  are  apt 
to  undervalue  what  we  did  not  ourselves  originally 
produce.  But  if  Miss  Dorcas  wished  in  a  gentle  man 
ner  to  remind  Mrs.  Betsey  that  she  was  betraying  too 
much  of  an  inclination  for  gossip,  she  did  not  succeed. 
The  clock  of  time  had  gone  back  on  the  dial  of  the  little 
old  lady,  and  she  was  as  full  of  chatter  and  detail  as  a 
school-girl,  and  determined  at  any  rate  to  make  the 
most  of  her  incidents,  and  to  create  a  sensation  in  her 
sister's  mind — for  what  is  more  provoking  than  to  have 
people  sit  calm  and  unexcited  when  we  have  a  stimu- 


WHAT   THEY  ALL   SAID  ABOUT  IT.          425 

lating  bit  of  news  to  tell  ?  It  is  an  evident  violation  of 
Christian  charity.  Mrs.  Betsey  now  drew  forth  her  next 
card. 

"Oh,  and,  Dorcas!  you've  no  idea.  They've  been 
having  the  most  dreadful  time  over  there !  Miss  Alice 
has  had  the  greatest  escape !  The  most  wonderful 
providence  !  It  really  makes  my  blood  run  cold  to  think 
of  it.  Don't  you  think,  she  was  all  dressed  to  go  to 
Mrs.  Wouvermans's  party,  and  her  dress  caught  on  fire, 
and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Mr.  Fellows's  presence  of  mind 
she  might  have  been  burned  to  death — really  burned  to 
death !  Only  think  of  it !" 

"You  don't  say  so!"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  who  now 
showed  excitement  enough  to  fully  satisfy  Mrs.  Betsey. 
**  How  very  dreadful!  Why,  how  was  it?" 

"  Yes — she  was  passing  in  front  of  the  fire,  in  a  thin 
white  tarlatan,  made  very  full,  with  flounces,  and  it  was 
just  drawn  in  and  flashed  up  like  tinder.  Mr.  Fellows 
caught  the  cloth  from  the  table,  wrapped  her  in  it  and 
laid  her  on  the  sofa,  and  then  tore  and  beat  out  the  fire 
with  his  hands." 

"Dear — me!  dear — me!"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  "how 
dreadful !  But  he  did  just  the  right  thing." 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  you  ought  to  have  seen  !  Mrs.  Hen 
derson  showed  me  what  was  left  of  the  dress,  and  it  was 
really  awful  to  see !  I  could  not  help  thinking,  '  In  the 
midst  of  life  we  are  in  death.'  All  trimmed  up  with 
scarlet  velvet  and  bows,  and  just  hanging  in  rags  and 
tatters,  where  it  had  been  burned  and  torn  away!  I 
never  saw  any  thing  so  solemn  in  my  life." 

"  A  narrow  escape,  certainly,"  said  Miss  Dorcas, 
"And  is  she  not  injured  at  all?" 

"  Nothing  to  speak  of,  only  a  few  slight  burns ;  but 
poor  Mr.  Fellows  has  to  have  his  hands  bandaged  and 
dressed  every  day;  but  of  course  he  doesn't  mind  that 


426  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

since  he  has  saved  her  life.  But  just  think  of  it,  Dorcas, 
we  shall  have  two  weddings,  and  it'll  make  two  more 
visiting  places.  I'm  going  to  tell  Dinah  all  about  it," 
and  the  little  woman  fled  to  the  kitchen,  with  Jack  at 
her  heels,  and  was  soon  heard  going  over  the  whole 
story  again. 

Dinah's  effusion  and  sympathy,  in  fact,  were  the  final 
refuge  of  Mrs.  Betsey  on  every  occasion,  whether  of  joy 
or  sorrow  or  perplexity — and  between  her  vigorous 
exclamations  and  loud  responses,  and  Jack's  running 
commentary  of  unrestrained  barking,  there  was  as  much 
noise  over  the  announcement  as  could  be  made  by  an 
average  town  meeting. 

Thus  were  the  tidings  received  across  the  way.  In 
the  Van  Arsdel  family,  Jim  was  already  an  established 
favorite.  Mr.  Van  Arsdel  always  liked  him  as  a  bright, 
agreeable  evening  visitor,  and,  now  that  he  had  acquired 
a  position  that  promised  a  fair  support,  there  was  no  op 
position  on  his  part  to  overcome.  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  was 
one  of  the  motherly,  complying  sort  of  women,  generally 
desirous  of  doing  what  the  next  person  to  her  wanted 
her  to  do ;  and,  though  she  was  greatly  confused  by 
remembering  Alice's  decided  asseverations  that  "if  never 
was  and  never  would  be  anything,  and  that  Jim  was  not 
at  all  the  person  she  ever  should  think  of  marrying,"  yet, 
since  it  was  evident  that  she  was  now  determined  upon 
the  affair,  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  looked  at  it  on  the  bright 
side. 

"After  all,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  her  spouse,  "if  I 
must  lose  both  my  daughters,  it's  a  mercy  to  have  them 
marry  and  settle  down  here  in  New  York,  where  I  can 
have  the  comfort  of  them.  Jim  will  always  be  an  atten 
tive  husband  and  a  good  family  man.  I  saw  that  when 
he  was  helping  us  move;  but  I'm  sure  I  don't  know 
what  Maria  will  say  now!" 


WHAT   THEY  ALL    SAID  ABOUT  IT.  427 

"  No  matter  what  Maria  says,  my  dear,"  said  Mr. 
Van  Arsdel.  lt  It  don't  make  one  hair  white  or  black. 
It's  time  you  were  emancipated  from  Maria." 

But  Aunt  Maria,  like  many  dreaded  future  evils, 
proved  less  formidable  on  this  occasion  than  had  been 
feared. 

The  very  submissive  and  edifying  manner  in  which 
Mr.  Jim  Fellows  had  received  her  strictures  and  cautions 
on  a  former  occasion,  and  the  profound  respect  he  had 
shown  for  her  opinion,  had  so  far  wrought  upon  her  as 
to  make  her  feel  that  it  was  really  a  pity  that  he  was  not 
a  young  man  of  established  fortune.  If  he  only  had 
anything  to  live  on,  why,  he  might  be  a  very  desirable 
match ;  and  so,  when  he  had  a  good  position  and  salary, 
he  stood  some  inches  higher  in  her  esteem.  Besides 
this,  there  was  another  balm  which  distilled  resignation 
in  the  cup  of  acquiescence,  and  that  was  the  grand 
chance  it  gave  her  to  say,  "I  told  you  so."  How  dear 
and  precious  this  privilege  is  to  the  very  best  of  people, 
we  need  not  insist.  There  are  times  when  it  would 
comfort  them,  if  all  their  dearest  friends  were  destroyed, 
to  be  able  to  say,  "  I  told  you  so.  It's  just  as  I  always 
predicted!"  We  all  know  how  Jonah,  though  not  a 
pirate  or  a  cut-throat,  yet  wished  himself  dead  because  a 
great  city  was  not  destroyed,  when  he  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  say  it  would  be.  Now,  though  Alice's  engage 
ment  was  not  in  any  strict  sense  an  evil,  yet  it  was  an 
event  which  Aunt  Maria  had  always  foreseen,  foretold 
and  insisted  on. 

So  when,  with  heart-sinkings  and  infinite  precautions, 
Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  had.  communicated  the  news  to  her,  she 
was  rather  relieved  at  the  response  given,  with  a  toss  of 
the  head  and  a  vigorous  sniff: 

"Oh,  that's  no  news  to  me;  it's  just  what  I  have 
foreseen  all  along — what  I  told  you  was  coming  on,  and 


428  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

you  wouldn't  believe  it.  Now  I  hope  all  of  you  will  see 
that  I  was  right." 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  "that  it  was  Jim's 
presence  of  mind  in  saving  her  life  that  decided  Alice  at 
last.  She  always  liked  him ;  but  I  don't  think  she  really 
loved  him  till  then." 

"Well,  of  course,  it  was  a  good  thing  that  there  was 
somebody  at  hand  who  had  sense  to  do  the  right  thing, 
when  girls  will  be  so  careless;  but  it  wasn't  that.  She 
meant  to  have  him  all  along;  and  I  knew  it,"  said  Aunt 
Maria.  "Well,  Jim  Fellows,  after  all,  isn't  the  worst 
match  a  girl  could  make,  either,  now  that  he  has  some 
prospects  of  his  own — but,  at  any  rate,  it  has  turned  out 
just  as  I  said  it  would.  I  knew  she'd  marry  him,  six 
months  ago,  just  as  well  as  I  know  it  now,  unless  you 
and  she  listened  to  my  advice  then.  So  now  all  we  have 
to  do  is  to  make  the  best  of  it.  You've  got  two  wed 
dings  on  your  hands,  now  Nellie,  instead  of  one,  and  I 
shall  do  all  I  can  to  help  you.  I  was  out  all  day  yester 
day  looking  at  sheeting,  and  I  think  that  at  Shanks  & 
Maynard's  is  decidedly  the  firmest  and  the  cheapest,  and 
I  ordered  three  pieces  sent  home;  and  I  carried  back 
the  napkins  to  Taggart's,  and  then  went  rambling  off  up 
by  the  Park  to  find  that  woman  that  does  marking." 

"I'm  sure,  Maria,  I  am  ever  so  much  obliged  to 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel. 

"Well,  I  hope  I'm  good  for  something.  Though  I  'm 
not  fit  to  be  out;  I  've  such  a  dreadful  cold  in  my  head, 
I  can  hardly  see ;  and  riding  in  these  New  York  omni 
buses  always  makes  it  worse." 

"  Dear  Maria,  why  will  you  expose  yourself  in  that 
way  ?" 

"  Well,  somebody  's  got  to  do  it — and  your  judgment 
isn't  worth  a  fip,  Nellie.  That  sheeting  that  you  were 
thinking  of  taking  was  n't  half  so  good,  and  cost  six  cents 


'   WHAT   THEY  ALL   SAID  ABOUT  IT.          429 

a  yard  more.  I  could  n't  think  of  having  things  go  that 
way." 

" But  I 'm  sure  we  don't  any  of  us  want  you  to  make 
yourself  sick." 

"Oh,  I  sha'n't  be  sick.  I  may  suffer;  but  I  sha'n't 
give  up.  I  'm  not  one  of  the  kind.  If  you  had  the  cold 
in  your  head  that  I  have,  Nellie,  you  'd  be  in  bed,  with 
both  girls  nursing  you ;  but  that  is  n't  my  way.  I  keep 
up,  and  attend  to  things.  I  want  these  things  of  Angie's 
to  be  got  up  properly,  as  they  ought  to  be,  and  there  's 
nobody  to  do  it  but  me." 

And  little  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  used,  from  long  habit,  to 
be  thus  unceremoniously  snubbed,  dethroned,  deposed, 
and  set  down  hard  by  her  sister  when  in  full  career  of 
labor  for  her  benefit,  looked  meekly  into  the  fire,  and 
comforted  herself  with  the  reflection  that  it  "was  just 
like  Maria.  She  always  talked  so ;  but,  after  all,  she  was 
a  good  soul,  and  saved  her  worlds  of  trouble,  and  made 
excellent  bargains  for  her." 


CHAPTER  XL  VII. 


THIS  article  of  faith  forms  a  part  of  the  profession 
of  all  Christendom,  is  solemnly  recited  every  Sun 
day  and  many  week-days  in  the  services  of  all  Chris 
tian  churches  that  have  a  liturgy,  whether  Roman  or 
Greek  or  Anglican  or  Lutheran,  and  may,  therefore,  bid 
fair  to  pass  for  a  fundamental  doctrine  of  Christianity. 

Yet,  if  narrowly  looked  into,  it  is  a  proposition  under 
which  there  are  more  heretics  and  unbelievers  than  all 
the  other  doctrines  of  religion  put  together. 

Mrs.  Maria  Wouvermans,  standing,  like  a  mother  in 
Israel,  in  the  most  eligible  pew  of  Dr.  Cushing's  church, 
has  just  pronounced  these  words  with  all  the  rest  of  the 
Apostles'  Creed,  which  she  has  recited  devoutly  twice  a 
day  every  Sunday  for  forty  years  or  more.  She  always 
recited  her  creed  in  a  good,  strong,  clear  voice,  designed 
to  rebuke  the  indolent  or  fastidious  who  only  mumbled 
or  whispered,  and  made  a  deep  reverence  in  the  proper 
place  at  the  name  of  Jesus  ;  and  somehow  it  seemed  to  feel 
as  if  she  were  witnessing  a  good  confession,  and  were  part 
and  parcel  with  the  protesting  saints  and  martyrs  that,  in 
blue  and  red  and  gold,  were  shining  down  upon  her 
through  the  painted  windows.  This  solemn  standing 
up  in  her  best  bonnet  and  reciting  her  Christian  faith 
every  Sunday,  was  a  weekly  testimony  against  infidelity 
and  schism  and  lax  doctrines  of  all  kinds,  and  the  good 
lady  gave  it  with  unfaltering  regularity.  Nothing  would 
have  shocked  her  more  than  to  have  it  intimated  to  her 
that  she  did  not  believe  the  articles  of  her  own  faith ;  and 


"IN   THE  FORGIVENESS  OF  SINS."  431 

yet,  if  there  was  anything  in  the  world  that  Mrs.  Maria 
Wouvermans  practically  didn't  believe  in,  and  didn't 
mean  to  believe  in,  it  was  "  the  forgiveness  of  sins." 

As  long  as  people  did  exactly  right,  she  had  fellow 
ship  and  sympathy  with  them.  When  they  did  wrong, 
she  wished  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  them. 
Nay,  she  seemed  to  consider  it  a  part  of  public  justice 
and  good  morals  to  clear  her  skirts  from  all  contact 
with  sinners.  If  she  heard  of  penalties  and  troubles 
that  befell  evil  doers,  it  was  with  a  face  of  grim  satis 
faction.  "  It  serves  them  right — just  what  they  ought 
to  expect.  I  don't  pity  them  in  the  least,"  were  fami 
liar  phrases  with  her.  .  If  anybody  did  her  an  injury, 
crossed  her  path,  showed  her  disrespect  or  contumely, 
she  seemed  to  feel  as  free  and  full  a  liberty  of  soul  to 
hate  them  as  if  the  Christian  religion  had  never  been 
heard  of.  And,  in  particular,  for  the  sins  of  women, 
Aunt  Maria  had  the  true  ingrain  Saxon  ferocity  which 
Sharon  Turner  describes  as  characteristic  of  the  original 
Saxon  female  in  the  earlier  days  of  English  history, 
when  the  unchaste  woman  was  pursued  and  beaten, 
starved  and  frozen,  from  house  to  house,  by  the  merci 
less  justice  of  her  sisters. 

It  is  the  same  spirit  that  has  come  down  through 
English  law  and  literature,  and  shows  itself  in  the  old 
popular  ballad  of  "Jane  Shore,"  where,  without  a  word 
of  pity,  it  is  recorded  how  Jane  Shore,  the  king's  mis 
tress,  after  his  death,  first  being  made  to  do  public 
penance  in  a  white  sheet,  was  thereafter  turned  out  to 
be  frozen  and  starved  to  death  in  the  streets,  and  died 
miserably  in  a  ditch,  from  that  time  called  Shoreditch. 
A  note  tells  us  that  there  was  one  man  who,  moved  by 
pity,  at  one  time  sheltered  the  poor  creature  and  gave 
her  food,  for  which  he  was  thrown  into  prison,  to  the 
great  increase  of  her  sorrow  and  misery. 


432  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

It  was  in  a  somewhat  similar  spirit  that  Mrs.  Wouv- 
ermans  regarded  all  sinning  women.  Her  uniform  ruling 
in  such  cases  was  that  they  were  to  be  let  alone  by  all 
decent  people,  and  that  if  they  fell  into  misery  and  want, 
it  was  only  just  what  they  deserved,  and  she  was  glad  of 
it.  What  business  had  they  to  behave  so?  In  her 
view,  all  efforts  to  introduce  sympathy  and  mercy  into 
prison  discipline — all  forbearance  and  pains-taking  with 
the  sinful  and  lost  in  all  places  in  society — was  just  so 
much  encouragement  given  to  the  criminal  classes,  and 
one  of  the  lax  humanitarian  tendencies  of  the  age. 
It  is  quite  certain  that  had  Mrs.  Wouvermans  been  a 
guest  in  old  times  at  a  certain  -Pharisee's  house,  where 
the  Master  allowed  a  fallen  woman  to  kiss  His  feet,  she 
would  have  joined  in  saying:  "If  this  man  were  a 
prophet  he  would  have  known  what  manner  of  woman 
this  is  that  toucheth  him,  for  she  is  a  sinner."  There 
was  certainly  a  marked  difference  of  spirit  between  her 
and  that  Jesus  to  whom  she  bowed  so  carefully  when 
ever  she  repeated  the  creed. 

On  this  particular  Sunday,  Eva  had  come  to  church 
with  her  aunt,  and  was  going  to  dine  with  her,  intent 
on  a  mission  of  Christian  diplomacy. 

Some  weeks  had  now  passed  since  she  left  Maggie  in 
the  mission  retreat,  and  it  was  the  belief  of  the  matron 
there,  and  the  attending  clergyman,  that  a  change  had 
taken  place  in  her,  so  radical  and  so  deep  that,  if  now 
some  new  and  better  course  of  life  were  opened  to  her, 
she  might,  under  careful  guidance,  become  a  useful 
member  of  society.  Whatever  views  modern  skepticism 
may  entertain  in  regard  to  what  is  commonly  called  the 
preaching  of  the  gospel,  no  sensible  person  conversant 
with  actual  facts  can  help  acknowledging  that  it  does 
produce  in  some  cases  the  phenomenon  called  conversion, 
and  that  conversion,  when  real,  is  a  solution  of  all  dim- 


"IN  THE  FORGIVENESS  OF  SINS."  433 

culties   in   our   days   as   it   was   in    those   of    the    first 
apostles. 

The  first  Christians  were  gathered  from  the  dregs  of 
society,  and  the  Master  did  not  fear  to  say  to  the  Phar 
isees,  "  The  publicans  and  harlots  go  into  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  before  you;"  and  St.  Paul  addresses  those 
who  he  says  had  been  thieves  and  drunkards  and  revilers 
and  extortioners,  with  the  words,  "  Ye  are  washed ;  ye 
are  sanctified;  ye  are  justified  in  the  name  of  the  Lord 
Jesus  and  by  the  spirit  of  God." 

It  is  on  the  power  of  the  Divine  spirit  to  effect  such 
changes,  even  in  the  most  hopeless  and  forlorn  subjects, 
that  Christians  of  every  name  depend  for  success ;  and 
by  this  faith  such  places  as  the  Home  for  the  Fallen  are 
undertaken  and  kept  up. 

What  people  look  for,  and  labor  for,  as  is  proved  by 
all  experience,  is  more  liable  to  happen  than  what  they 
do  not  expect  and  do  not  labor  for.  The  experiment  of 
Mr.  James  was  attended  by  many  marked  and  sudden 
instances  of  conversion  and  permanent  change  of  char 
acter.  Maggie  had  been  entrapped  and  drawn  in  by 
Mother  Moggs  in  one  of  those  paroxysms  of  bitter  des 
pair  which  burned  in  her  bosom,  when  she  saw,  as  she 
thought,  every  respectable  door  of  life  closed  upon  her 
and  the  way  of  virtue  shut  up  beyond  return.  When  she 
thought  how,  while  she  was  cast  out  as  utterly  beyond 
hope,  the  man  who  had  betrayed  her  and  sinned  with  her 
was  respected,  flattered,  rich,  caressed,  and  joined  in 
marriage  to  a  pure  and  virtuous  wife,  a  blind  and  keen 
sense  of  injustice  awoke  every  evil  or  revengeful  passion 
within  her.  "If  they  won't  let  me  do  good,  I  can  do 
mischief,"  she  thought,  and  she  was  now  ready  to  do  all 
she  could  to  work  misery  and  ruin  for  a  world  that 
would  give  her  no  place  to  do  better.  Mother  Moggs 
saw  Maggie's  brightness  and  smartness,  and  the  remains 
T 


434  WE   AND   OUR   NEIGHBORS. 

of  her  beauty.  She  flattered  and  soothed  her.  To  say 
the  truth,  Mother  Moggs  was  by  no  means  all  devil. 
She  had  large  remains  of  that  motherly  nature  which  is 
common  to  warm-blooded  women  of  easy  virtue.  She 
took  Maggie's  part,  was  indignant  at  her  wrongs,  and 
offered  her  a  shelter  and  a  share  in  her  business.  Mag 
gie  was  to  tend  her  bar;  and  by  her  talents  and  her 
good  looks  and  attractions  Mother  Moggs  hoped  to 
double  her  liquor  sales.  What  if  it  did  ruin  the  men  ? 
What  if  it  was  selling  them  ruin,  madness,  beggary — so 
much  the  better; — had  they  not  ruined  her? 

If  Maggie  had  been  left  to  her  own  ways,  she  might 
have  been  the  ruin  of  many.  It  was  the  Christ  in  the 
heart  of  a  woman  who  had  the  Christian  love  and  Chris 
tian  courage  to  go  after  her  and  seek  for  her,  that 
brought  to  her  salvation.  The  invisible  Christ  must  be 
made  known  through  human  eyes ;  he  must  speak 
through  a  voice  of  earthly  love,  and  a  human  hand 
inspired  by  his  spirit  must  be  reached  forth  to  save. 

The  sight  of  Eva's  pure,  sweet  face  in  that  den  of 
wickedness,  the  tears  of  pity  in  her  eyes,  the  imploring 
tones  of  her  voice,  had  produced  an  electric  revulsion  in 
Maggie's  excitable  nature.  She  was  not,  then,  forsaken : 
she  was  cared  for,  loved,  followed  even  into  the  wilder 
ness,  by  one  so  far  above  her  in  rank  and  station.  It  was 
an  illustration  of  what  Christian  love  was,  which  made 
it  possible  to  believe  in  the  love  of  Christ.  The  hymns, 
the  prayers,  that  spoke  of  hope  and  salvation,  had  a  vivid 
meaning  in  the  light  of  this  interpretation.  The  enthu 
siasm  of  gratitude  that  arose  first  towards  Eva,  over 
flowed  and  bore  the  soul  higher  towards  a  Heavenly 
Friend. 

Maggie  was  now  longing  to  come  back  and  prove  by 
her  devotion  ard  obedience  her  true  repentance,  and  Eva 
had  decided  to  take  her  again.  With  two  weddings 


"IN   THE  FORGIVENESS  OF  SINS."  435 

impending  in  the  family,  she  felt  that  Maggie's  skill  with 
the  needle  and  her  facility  in  matters  pertaining  to  the 
female  toilet  might  do  good  service,  and  might  give  her 
the  sense  of  usefulness — the  strength  that  comes  from 
something  really  accomplished. 

Her  former  experience  made  her  careful,  however,  of 
those  sore  and  sensitive  conditions  which  attend  the 
return  to  virtue  in  those  who  have  sinned,  and  which  are 
often  severest  where  there  is  the  most  moral  vitality,  and 
she  was  anxious  to  prevent  any  repetition  on  Aunt 
Maria's  part  of  former  unwise  proceedings.  All  the 
other  habituds  of  the  house  partook  of  her  own  feeling ; 
Alice  and  Angie  were  warmly  interested  for  the  poor 
girl ;  and  if  Aunt  Maria  could  be  brought  to  tolerate  the 
arrangement,  the  danger  of  a  sudden  domiciliary  visit 
from  her  attended  with  inflammatory  results  might  be 
averted. 

So  Eva  was  very  sweet  and  very  persuasive  in  her 
manner  to-day,  for  Aunt  Maria  had  been  devoting  her 
self  so  entirely  to  the  family  service  during  the  few  weeks 
past,  that  she  felt  in  some  sort  under  a  debt  of  obligation 
to  her.  The  hardest  person  in  the  world  to  manage  is  a 
sincere,  willful,  pig-headed,  pertinacious  friend  who  will 
insist  on  doing  you  all  sorts  of  kindnesses  in  a  way  that 
plagues  about  as  much  as  it  helps  you. 

But  Eva  was  the  diplomatist  of  the  family ;  the  one 
with  the  precise  mixture  of  the  suaviter  in  modo  with  the 
fortiter  in  re.  She  had  hitherto  carried  her  points  with 
the  good  lady  in  a  way  that  gave  her  great  advantage,  for 
Aunt  Maria  was  one  of  those  happily  self-complacent 
people  who  do  not  fail  to  arrogate  to  themselves  the 
after  the  most  strenuous  efforts,  to  hinder,  and  Eva's 
credit  of  all  the  good  things  that  they  have  not  been  able, 
housekeeping  and  social  successes,  so  far,  were  quite  a 
feather  in  her  cap.  So,  after  dinner,  Eva  began  with : 


436  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Well,  you  know,  Aunt  Maria,  what  with  these  two 
weddings  coming  on,  there  is  to  be  a  terrible  pressure  of 
work — both  coming  the  week  after  Easter,  you  see.  So," 
she  added  quickly,  "  I  think  it  quite  lucky  that  I  have 
found  Maggie  and  got  her  back  again,  for  she  is  one  of 
the  quickest  and  best  seamstresses  that  I  know  of." 
Aunt  Maria's  brow  suddenly  darkened.  Every  trace  of 
good-humor  vanished  from  her  face  as  she  said : 

"  Now  do  tell  me,  Eva,  if  you  are  going  to  be  such  a 
fool,  when  you  were  once  fairly  quit  of  that  girl,  to  bring 
her  back  into  your  family." 

"  Yes,  Aunt,  I  thought  it  my  Christian  duty  to  take 
care  of  her,  and  see  that  she  did  not  go  to  utter  ruin." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Aunt  Maria. 
"  /  should  say  she  had  gone  there  now.  Do  you  think 
it  your  duty  to  turn  your  house  into  a  Magdalen  asy 
lum?" 

"  No,  I  do  not ;  but  I  do  think  it  is  our  duty  to  try  to 
help  and  save  this  one  girl  whom  we  know — who  is  truly 
repentant,  and  who  wants  to  do  well." 

"Repentant!"  said  Aunt  Maria  in  a  scornful  tone. 
"  Do  n't  tell  me.  I  know  their  tricks,  and  you'll  just  be 
imposed  on  and  get  yourself  into  trouble.  I  know  the 
world,  and  I  know  all  about  it."  Eva  now  rose  and 
played  her  last  card.  "Aunt  Maria,"  she  said,  "You 
profess  to  be  a  Christian  and  to  follow  the  Saviour  who 
came  to  seek  and  save  the  lost,  and  I  do  n't  think  you  do 
right  to  treat  with  such  scorn  a  poor  girl  that  is  trying  to 
do  better." 

"  It's  pretty  well  of  you,  Miss,  to  lecture  me  in  this 
style!  Trying  to  do  better!"  said  Aunt  Maria,  "then 
what  did  she  go  off  for,  when  she  was  at  your  house  and 
you  were  doing  all  you  could  for  her?  It  was  just  that 
she  wanted  to  go  to  the  bad." 

"  She  went  off,  Aunt  Maria,"  said  Eva,  "  because  she 


"IN  THE  FORGIVENESS  OF  SINS."  437 

overheard  all  you  said  about  her,  the  day  you  were  at 
my  house.  She  heard  you  advising  me  to  send  her 
mother  away  on  her  account,  and  saying  that  she  was  a 
disgrace  to  me.  No  wonder  she  ran  off." 

"Well,  serves  her  right  for  listening!  Listeners 
never  hear  any  good  of  themselves,"  said  Aunt  Maria. 

"Now,  Aunty,"  said  Eva,  "nobody  has  more  respect 
for  your  good  qualities  than  I  have,  or  more  sense  of 
what  we  all  owe  you  for  your  kindness  to  us;  but  I 
must  tell  you  fairly  that,  now  I  am  married,  you  must 
not  come  to  my  house  to  dictate  about  or  interfere  with 
my  family  arrangements.  You  must  understand  that 
Harry  and  I  manage  these  matters  ourselves  and  will  not 
allow  any  interference ;  and  I  tell  you  now  that  Maggie 
is  to  be  at  our  house,  and  under  my  care,  and  I  request 
that  you  will  not  come  there  to  say  or  do  anything  which 
may  hurt  her  mother's  feelings  or  hers." 

"  Mighty  fine,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  rising  in  wrath, 
"  when  it  has  come  to  this,  that  servants  are  preferred 
before  me !" 

"  It  has  not  come  to  that,  Aunt  Maria.  It  has  simply 
come  to  this :  that  I  am  to  be  sole  mistress  in  my  own 
family,  and  sole  judge  of  what  it  is  right  and  proper  to 
do ;  and  when  I  need  your  advice  I  shall  ask  it ;  but  I 
do  n't  want  you  to  offer  it  unless  I  do." 

Having  made  this  concluding  speech  while  she  was 
putting  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  Eva  now  cheerfully 
wished  her  aunt  good  afternoon,  and  made  the  best  of 
her  way  down-stairs. 

"  I  do  n't  see,  Eva,  how  you  could  get  up  the  courage 
to  face  your  aunt  down  in  that  way,"  said  Mrs.  Van 
Arsdel,  to  whom  Eva  related  the  interview. 

"  Dear  Mamma,  it'll  do  her  good.  She  will  be  as 
sweet  as  a  rose  after  the  first  week  of  indignation.  Aunt 
Maria  is  a  sensible  woman,  after  all,  and  resigns  herself 


438  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

to  the  inevitable.  She  worries  and  hectors  you,  my 
precious  Mammy,  because  you  will  let  her.  If  you'd 
show  a  brave  face,  she  would  n't  do  it ;  but  it  is  n't  in 
you,  you  poor,  lovely  darling,  and  so  she  just  preys  upon 
you ;  but  Harry  and  I  are  resolved  to  make  her  stand 
and  give  the  countersign  when  she  comes  to  our  camp." 
And  it  is  a  fact  that,  a  week  after,  Aunt  Maria  spent 
a  day  with  Eva  in  the  balmiest  state  of  grace,  and  made 
no  allusion  whatever  to  the  conversation  above  cited. 
Nothing  operates  so  healthfully  on  such  moral  constitu 
tions  as  a  good  dose  of  certainty. 


CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

THE    PEARL    CROSS. 

EVERY  thoughtful  person  who  exercises  the  least 
supervision  over  what  goes  on  within,  is  conscious 
of  living  two  distinct  lives — the  outward  and  the  in 
ward. 

The  external  life  is  positive,  visible,  definable ;  easily 
made  the  subject  of  conversation.  The  inner  life  is  shy, 
retiring,  most  difficult  to  be  expressed  in  words,  often 
inexplicable,  even  to  the  subject  of  it,  yet  no  less  a  posi 
tive  reality  than  the  outward. 

We  have  not  succeeded  in  the  picture  of  our  Eva 
unless  we  have  shown  her  to  have  one  of  those  sensitive 
moral  organizations,  whose  nature  it  is  to  reflect  deeply, 
to  feel  intensely,  and  to  aspire  after  a  high  moral  ideal. 

If  we  do  not  mistake  the  age  we  live  in,  the  perplex 
ities  and  anxieties  of  such  natures  form  a  very  large 
item  in  our  modern  life. 

It  is  said  that  the  Christian  religion  is  losing  its  hold 
on  society.  On  the  contrary,  we  believe  there  never 
was  a  time  when  faith  in  Christianity  was  so  deep  and 
all-pervading,  and  when  it  was  working  in  so  many 
minds  as  a  disturbing  force. 

The  main  thing  which  is  now  perplexing  modern  so 
ciety,  is  the  effort  which  is  making  to  reduce  the  teach 
ings  of  the  New  Testament  to  actual  practice  in  life  and 
to  regulate  society  by  them.  There  is  no  skepticism  as 
to  the  ends  sought  by  Jesus  in  human  life.  Nobody 
doubts  that  love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law,  and  that  to 


440  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

do  as  we  would  be  done  by,  applied  universally,  would 
bring  back  the  golden  age,  if  ever  such  ages  were. 

But  the  problem  that  meets  the  Christian  student, 
and  the  practical  person  who  means  to  live  the  Christian 
life,  is  the  problem  of  redemption  and  of  self-sacrifice. 

In  a  world  where  there  is  always  ruin  and  misery, 
where  the  inexperienced  are  ensnared  and  the  blind 
misled,  and  where  fatal  and  inexorable  penalties  follow 
every  false  step,  there  must  be  a  band  of  redeemers, 
seekers  and  savers  of  the  lost.  There  must  be  those 
who  sacrifice  ease,  luxury  and  leisure,  to  labor  for  the 
restoration  of  the  foolish  and  wicked  who  have  sold 
their  birthright  and  lost  their  inheritance ;  and  here  is 
just  the  problem  that  our  age  and  day  present  to  the 
thoughtful  person  who,  having  professed,  in  whatever 
church  or  creed,  to  be  a  Christian,  wishes  to  make  a 
reality  of  that  profession. 

The  night  that  Eva  had  spent  in  visiting  the  worst 
parts  of  New  York  had  been  to  her  a  new  revelation  of 
that  phase  of  paganism  which  exists  in  our  modern  city 
life,  within  sound  of  hundreds  of  church  bells  of  every 
denomination.  She  saw  authorized  as  a  regular  trade, 
and  protected  by  law,  the  selling  of  that  poisoned  liquor 
which  brings  on  insanity  worse  than  death ;  which  en 
genders  idiocy,  and  the  certainty  of  vicious  propensities 
in  the  brain  of  the  helpless  unborn  infant ;  which  is  the 
source  of  all  the  poverty,  and  more  than  half  the  crime, 
that  fills  alms-houses  and  prisons,  and  of  untold  miseries 
and  agonies  to  thousands  of  families.  She  saw  woman 
degraded  as  the  minister  of  sin  and  shame;  the  fallen 
and  guilty  Eve,  forever  plucking  and  giving  to  Adam 
the  forbidden  fruit  whose  mortal  taste  brings  death  into 
the  world  ;  and  her  heart  had  been  stirred  by  the  sight 
of  those  multitudes  of  poor  ruined  wrecks  of  human 
beings,  men  and  women,  that  she  had  seen  crowding  in 


THE  PEARL   CROSS.  441 

to  that  midnight  supper,  and  by  the  earnest  pleadings  of 
faith  and  love  that  she  had  heard  in  the  good  man's 
prayers  for  them.  She  recalled  his  simple  faith,  his  un 
daunted  courage  in  thus  maintaining  this  forlorn  hope 
in  so  hopeless  a  region,  and  she  could  not  rest  satisfied 
with  herself,  doing  nothing  to  help. 

In  talking  with  Mr.  James  on  his  prospects,  he  had 
said  that  he  very  much  wished  to  enlarge  this  Home  so 
as  to  put  there  some  dormitories  for  the  men  who  were 
willing  to  take  the  pledge  to  abandon  drinking,  where 
they  could  find  shelter  and  care  until  some  kind  of  work 
could  be  provided  for  them.  He  stated  further  that  he 
wished  to  connect  with  the  enterprise  a  farm  in  the 
country  where  work  could  be  found  for  both  men  and 
women,  of  a  kind  which  would  be  remunerative,  and 
which  might  prove  self-supporting. 

Eva  reflected  with  herself  whether  she  had  anything 
to  give  or  to  do  for  a  purpose  so  sacred.  Their  income 
was  already  subject  to  a  strict  economy.  The  little 
elegancies  and  adornments  of  her  house  were  those  that 
are  furnished  by  thought  and  care  rather  than  by  money. 
Even  with  the  most  rigorous  self-scrutiny,  Eva  could 
not  find  fault  with  the  home  philosophy  by  which  their 
family  life  had  been  made  attractive  and  delightful,  be 
cause  she  said  and  felt  that  her  house  had  been  a  min 
istry  to  others.  It  had  helped  to  make  others  stronger, 
more  cheerful,  happier. 

But  when  she  brought  Maggie  away  from  the  Home, 
she  longed  to  send  back  some  helpful  token  to  those 
earnest  laborers. 

On  revising  her  possessions,  she  remembered  that, 
once,  in  the  days  when  she  was  a  rich  and  rather  self- 
indulgent  daughter  of  luxury,  she  had  spent  the  whole 
of  one  quarter's  allowance  in  buying  for  herself  a  pearl 
cross.  It  cost  her  not  even  a  sacrifice,  for  when  with  a 


442  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

kiss  or  two  she  confessed  her  extravagance  to  her  father, 
he  only  pinched  her  cheek  playfully,  told  her  not  to  do 
so  again,  and  gave  a  check  for  the  amount.  There  it 
lies,  at  this  moment,  in  Eva's  hands ;  and  as  she  turns  it 
abstractedly  round  and  round,  and  marks  the  play  of 
light  on  the  beautiful  pearls,  she  thinks  earnestly  what 
that  cross  means,  and  wonders  that  she  should  ever  have 
worn  it  as  a  mere  bauble. 

Does  it  not  mean  that  man's  most  generous  Friend, 
the  highest,  the  purest,  the  sweetest  nature  that  ever 
visited  this  earth,  was  agonized,  tortured,  forsaken,  and 
left  to  bleed  life  away,  unpitied  and  unrelieved,  for  love 
of  us  and  of  all  sinning,  suffering  humanity  ?  Suddenly 
the  words  came  with  overpowering  force  to  her  mind  : 
"  He  died  for  all,  that  they  which  live  should  not  hence 
forth  live  unto  themselves." 

Immediately  she  resolved  that  she  would  give  this 
cross  to  the  sacred  work  of  saving  the  lost.  She  resolved 
to  give  it  secretly — without  the  knowledge  even  of  her 
husband.  The  bauble  was  something  personal  to  herself 
that  never  would  be  missed  or  inquired  for,  and  she  felt 
about  such  an  offering  that  reserve  and  sacredness  which 
is  proper  to  natures  of  great  moral  delicacy.  With  the 
feeling  she  had  at  this  moment,  it  was  as  much  an  ex 
pression  of  personal  loyalty  and  devotion  to  Jesus  Christ 
as  was  the  precious  alabaster  vase  of  Mary.  It  satis 
fied,  moreover,  a  kind  of  tender,  vague  remorse  that  she 
had  often  felt ;  as  if,  in  her  wedded  happiness  and  her 
quiet  home,  she  were  too  blessed,  and  had  more  than 
her  share  of  happiness  in  a  world  where  there  were  such 
sufferings  and  sorrows. 

She  had  always  had  a  longing  to  do  something  to 
wards  the  world's  work,  and,  if  nothing  more,  to  be  a 
humble  helper  of  the  brave  and  heroic  spirits  who  press 
on  in  the  front  ranks  of  this  fight  for  the  good. 


THE  PEARL   CROSS.  443 

She  did  not  wish  to  be  thanked  or  praised,  as  if  the 
giving  up  of  such  a  toy  for  such  a  cause  were  a  sacrifice 
worth  naming;  for,  in  the  mood  that  she  was  in,  it  was 
no  sacrifice — it  was  a  relief  to  an  over-charged  feeling, 
an  act  of  sacramental  union  between  her  soul  and  the 
Saviour  who  gave  himself  wholly  for  the  lost.  So  she 
put  the  velvet  case  in  its  box,  and  left  it  at  Mr.  James's 
door,  with  the  following  little  note : 

"  My  Dear  Sir  :  Ever  since  that  most  sad  evening  when  I  went 
with  you  in  your  work  of  mercy  to  those  unhappy  people,  I  have 
been  thinking  of  what  I  saw,  and  wishing  I  could  do  something  to 
help  you.  You  say  that  you  do  not  solicit  aid  except  from  the  dear 
Father  who  is  ever  near  to  those  that  are  trying  to  do  such  work 
as  this ;  yet,  as  long  as  he  is  ever  near  to  Christian  hearts,  he  will 
inspire  them  with  desires  to  help  in  a  cause  so  wholly  Christ-like.  I 
Send  you  this  ornament,  which  was  bought  in  days  when  I  thought 
little  of  its  sacred  meaning.  Sell  it,  and  let  the  avails  go  towards 
enlarging  your  Home  for  those  poor  people  who  find  no  place  for 
repentance  in  the  world.  I  would  rather  you  would  tell  nobody 
from  whom  it  comes.  It  is  something  wholly  my  own  ;  it  is  a  relief 
to  offer  it,  to  help  a  little  in  so  good  a  work,  and  I  certainly  shall  not 
forget  to  pray  for  your  success. 

"  Yours,  very  truly,  E.  H. 

"P.S. — I  am  very  happy  to  be  able  to  say  that  poor  M.  seems 
indeed  a  changed  creature.  She  is  gentle,  quiet,  and  humble  ;  and  is 
making,  in  our  family,  many  friends. 

"  I  feel  hopeful  that  there  is  a  future  for  her,  and  that  the  dear 
Saviour  has  done  for  her  what  no  human  being  could  do." 

We  have  seen  the  question  raised  lately  in  a  religious 
paper,  whether  the  sacrifice  of  personal  ornaments  for 
benevolent  objects  was  not  obligatory;  and  we  have  seen 
the  right  to  retain  these  small  personal  luxuries  defended 
with  earnestness. 

To  us,  it  seems  an  unfortunate  mode  of  putting  a 
very  sacred  subject. 

The  Infinite  Saviour,  in  whose  hands  all  the  good 
works  of  the  world  are  moving,  is  rich.  The  treasures 


444  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

of  the  world  are  his.  He  is  as  able  now  as  he  was  when 
on  earth  to  bid  us  cast  in  our  line  and  find  a  piece  of 
silver  in  the  mouth  of  the  first  fish.  Our  gifts  are  only 
valuable  to  him  for  what  they  express  in  us. 

Had  Mary  not  shed  the  precious  balm  upon  his  head, 
she  would  not  have  been  reproved  for  the  omission;  yet 
the  exaltation  of  love  which  so  expressed  itself  was 
appreciated  and  honored  by  him. 

It  is  written,  too,  that  he  looked  upon  and  loved  the 
young  man  who  had  not  yet  attained  to  the  generous 
enthusiasm  that  is  willing  to  sacrifice  all  for  suffering 
humanity. 

Religious  offerings,  to  have  value  in  his  sight,  must 
be  like  the  gifts  of  lovers,  not  extorted  by  conscience, 
but  by  the  divine  necessity  which  finds  relief  in  giving. 

He  can  wait,  as  mothers  do,  till  we  outgrow  our  love 
of  toys  and  come  to  feel  the  real  sacredness  and  sig 
nificance  of  life.  The  toy  which  is  dear  to  childhood  will 
be  easily  surrendered  in  the  nobler  years  of  maturity. 

But  Eva's  was  a  nature  so  desirous  of  sympathy  that 
whatever  dwelt  on  her  mind  overflowed  first  or  last  into 
the  minds  of  her  friends;  and,  an  evening  or  two  after 
her  visit  to  the  mission  home,  she  told  the  whole  story  at 
her  fireside  to  Dr.  Campbell,  St.  John,  and  Angie,  Bolton, 
Jim,  and  Alice,  who  were  all  dining  with  her.  Eva  had 
two  or  three  objects  in  this.  In  the  first  place,  she 
wanted  to  touch  the  nerve  of  real  Christian  unity  which 
she  felt  existed  between  the  heart  of  St.  John  and  that  of 
every  true  Christian  worker — that  same  Christian  unity 
that  associated  the  Puritan  apostle  Eliot  with  the  Roman 
Catholic  missionaries  of  Canada.  She  wished  him  to 
see  in  a  Methodist  minister  the  same  faith,  the  same 
moral  heroism  which  he  had  so  warmly  responded  to  in 
the  ritualistic  mission  of  St.  George,  and  which  was  his 
moral  ideal  in  his  own  work. 


THE  PEARL   CROSS.  445 

She  wished  to  show  Dr.  Campbell  the  pure  and  sim 
ple  faith  in  God  and  prayer  by  which  so  effective  a  work 
of  humanity  had  already  been  done  for  a  class  so  hope 
less. 

"It's  all  very  well,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  glad,  if  any 
body  can  do  it ;  but  I  don't  believe  prayer  has  anything 
to  do  with  it." 

"Well,  I  do,"  said  Bolton,  energetically.  "I  would  n't 
think  life  worth  having  another  minute,  if  I  didn't  think 
there  was  a  God  who  would  stand  by  a  man  whose  whole 
life  was  devoted  to  work  like  this." 

"Well,"  said  Campbell,  "it  isn't,  after  all,  an  appeal 
to  God;  it's  an  appeal  to  human  nature.  Nobody  tfiat 
has  a  heart  in  him  can  see  such  a  work  doing  and  not 
want  to  help  it.  Your  minister  takes  one  and  another  to 
see  his  Home,  and  says  nothing,  and,  by-and-by,  the 
money  comes  in." 

"  But  in  the  beginning,"  said  Eva,  "  he  had  nc  money, 
and  nothing  to  show  to  anybody.  He  was  going  to  do 
a  work  that  nobody  believed  in,  among  people  that 
everybody  thought  so  hopeless  that  it  was  money  thrown 
away  to  help  him.  To  whom  could  he  go  but  God  ?  He 
went  and  asked  Him  to  help  him,  and  began,  and  has 
been  helped  day  by  day  ever  since ;  and  /  believe  God 
did  help  him.  What  is  the  use  of  believing  in  God  at 
all,  if  we  don't  believe  that?" 

"Well,"  said  Jim,  "I'm  not  much  on  theology,  but 
we  newspaper  fellows  get  a  considerable  stock  of  facts, 
first  and  last;  and  I've  looked  through  this  sort  of  thing, 
and  I  believe  in  it.  A  man  don't  go  on  doing  a  business 
of  six  or  seven  or  eight  thousand  a  year  on  prayer, 
unless  prayer  amounts  to  something;  and  I  know,  first 
and  last,  the  expenses  of  that  concern  can't  be  less  than 
that." 

"  Well,"  said  Harry,  "  we  have  a  lasting  monument 


446  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

in  the  great  orphan  house  of  Halle — a  whole  city  square 
of  solid  stone  buildings.  I  have  stood  in  the  midst  of 
them,  and  they  were  all  built  by  one  man,  without  for 
tune  of  his  own,  who  has  left  us  his  written  record  how, 
day  by  day,  as  expenses  thickened,  he  went  to  God  and 
asked  for  his  supplies,  and  found  them." 

"  But  I  maintain,"  said  Dr.  Campbell,  "  that  his  ap 
peal  was  to  human  nature.  People  found  out  what  he 
was  doing,  their  sympathies  were  moved,  and  they  sent 
him  help.  The  very  sight  of  such  a  work  is  an  applica 
tion." 

"I  don't  think  that  theory  accounts  for  the  facts," 
said  Bolton.  "Admitting  that  there  is  a  God  who  is 
near  every  human  heart  in  its  most  secret  retirement, 
who  knows  the  most  hidden  moods,  the  most  obscure 
springs  of  action,  how  can  you  prove  that  this  God  did 
not  inspire  the  thoughts  of  sympathy  and  purposes  of 
help  there  recorded?  For  we  have  in  this  Franke's 
journal,  year  after  year,  records  of  help  coming  in  when 
it  was  wanted,  having  been  asked  for  of  God,  and  ob 
tained  with  as  much  regularity  and  certainty  as  if  checks 
had  been  drawn  on  a  banker." 

"  Well,"  said  Dr.  Campbell,  "  do  you  suppose  that,  if 
I  should  now  start  to  build  a  hospital  without  money, 
and  pray  every  week  for  funds  to  settle  with  my  work 
men,  it  would  come  ?" 

"  No,  Doctor,  you  're  not  the  kind  of  fellow  that  such 
things  happen  to,"  said  Jim,  "nor  am  I." 

"It  supposes  an  exceptional  nature,"  said  Bolton, 
"an  utter  renunciation  of  self,  an  entire  devotion  to  an 
unselfish  work,  and  an  unshaken  faith  in  God.  It  is  a 
moral  genius,  as  peculiar  and  as  much  a  gift  as  the  genius 
of  painting,  poetry,  or  music." 

"It  is  an  inspiration  to  do  the  work  of  humanity, 
and  it  presupposes  faith,"  said  Eva.  "  You  know  the 


THE  PEARL   CROSS.  447 

Bible  says,  *  He  that  cometh  to  God  must  believe  that  HE 
is,  and  that  he  is  a  rewarder  of  those  that  diligently  seek 
him.'  " 

The  result  of  that  fireside  talk  was  not  unfruitful. 
The  next  week  was  a  harvest  for  the  Home. 

In  blank  envelopes,  giving  no  names,  came  various 
sums.  Fifty  dollars,  with  the  added  note  : 

"  From  a  believer  in  human  nature." 

This  was  from  Dr.  Campbell. 

A  hundred  dollars  was  found  in  another  envelope, 
with  the  note : 

"  To  help  up  the  fallen, 
From  one  who  has  been  down." 

This  was  from  Bolton. 

Mr.  St.  John  sent  fifty  dollars,  with  the  words : 

"  From  a  fellow-worker." 

And,  finally,  Jim  Fellows  sent  fifty,  with  the  words : 
"  From  one  of  the  boys." 

None  of  these  consulted  with  the  other;  each  con 
tribution  was  a  silent  and  secret  offering.  Who  can 
prove  that  the  "  Father  that  seeth  in  secret "  did  not  in 
spire  them  ? 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THE    UNPROTECTED    FEMALE. 

"  '"T^HE  Squantum  and  Patuxet  Manufacturing-  Com- 

JL  pany  have  concluded  not  to  make  any  dividends 
for  the  current  year." 

Such  was  the  sum  and  substance  that  Miss  Dorcas 
gathered  from  a  very  curt  letter  which  she  had  just  re 
ceived  from  the  Secretary  of  that  concern,  at  the  time  of 
the  semi-annual  dividend. 

The  causes  of  this  arrangement  were  said  to  be  that 
the  entire  income  of  the  concern  (which  it  was  cheer 
fully  stated  had  never  been  so  prosperous)  was  to  be 
devoted  to  the  erection  of  a  new  mill  and  the  purchase 
of  new  machinery,  which  would  in  the  future  double  the 
avails  of  the  stock. 

Now,  as  society  is,  and,  for  aught  we  see,  as  it  must 
be,  the  masculine  half  of  mankind  have  it  all  their  own 
way;  and  the  cleverest  and  shrewdest  woman,  in  making 
investments,  has  simply  the  choice  between  what  this  or 
that  man  tells  her.  If  she  falls  by  chance  into  the  hands 
of  an  honest  man,  with  good  sense,  she  may  make  an 
investment  that  will  be  secure  to  pay  all  the  expenses  of 
her  mortal  pilgrimage,  down  to  the  banks  of  Jordan ;  but 
if,  as  quite  often  happens,  she  falls  into  the  hands  of 
careless  or  visionary  advisers,  she  may  suddenly  find 
herself  in  the  character  of  "  the  unprotected  female  "  at 
some  half-way  station  of  life,  with  her  ticket  lost  and 
not  a  cent  to  purchase  her  further  passage. 

Now,  this  was  precisely  the  predicament  that  this 
letter  announced  to  Miss  Dorcas.  For  the  fact  was 


THE    UNPROTECTED  FEMALE.  449 

that,  although  she  and  her  sister  owned  the  house  they 
lived  in,  yet  every  available  cent  of  income  that  supplied 
their  establishment  came  from  the  dividends  of  these 
same  Squantum  and  Patuxet  mills. 

It  is  a  fact,  too,  that  women,  however  strong  may  be 
their  own  sense  and  ability,  do,  as  a  general  fact,  rely  on 
the  judgment  of  the  men  of  the  family,  and  consider  their 
rulings  in  business  matters  final. 

Miss  Dorcas  had  all  this  propensity  intensified  by 
the  old-world  family  feeling.  Her  elder  brother,  Dick 
Vanderheyden,  was  one  of  those  handsome,  plausible, 
visionary  fellows  who  seem  born  to  rule  over  woman- 
.  kind,  and  was  fully  disposed  to  magnify  his  office.  Miss 
Dorcas  worshiped  him  with  a  faith  which  none  of  his 
numerous  failures  abated.  The  cupboards  and  closets 
of  the  house  were  full  of  the  remains  of  inventions 
which,  he  had  demonstrated  by  figures  in  the  face  of 
facts,  ought  to  have  produced  millions,  and  never  did 
produce  anything  but  waste  of  money.  She  was  sure 
that  he  was  the  original  inventor  of  the  principle  of  the 
sewing-machine ;  and  how  it  happened  that  he  never 
perfected  the  thing,  and  that  somebody  else  stole  in  be 
fore  him  and  got  it  all,  Miss  Dorcas  regarded  as  one  of 
the  inscrutable  mysteries  of  Providence. 

Poor  Dick  Vanderheyden  was  one  of  those  perma 
nent  waiters  at  the  world's  pool,  like  the  impotent  man 
in  the  gospel.  When  the  angel  of  success  came  down 
and  troubled  the  waters,  there  was  always  another  who 
stepped  in  before  him  and  got  the  benefit. 

Yet  there  was  one  thing  that  never  left  him  to  the  last, 
and  that  was  a  sweet-tempered,  sunny  hopefulness,  in 
which,  through  years  when  the  family  fortune  had  been 
growing  beautifully  less  in  his  hands,  Dick  was  still 
making  arrangements  which  were  to  bring  in  wonderful 
results,  till  one  night  a  sudden  hemorrhage  from  the 


450  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

lungs  settled  all  his  earthly  accounts  in  an  hour,  and  left 
Miss  Dorcas  and  Mrs.  Betsey  without  a  male  relative  in 
the  world. 

One  of  the  last  moves  of  brother  Dick  had  been  to 
take  all  the  sisters'  United  States  stock  and  invest  it  for 
them  in  the  Squantum  and  Patuxet  Manufacturing  Com 
pany,  where,  he  confidently  assured  them,  it  would  in 
time  bring  them  an  income  of  fifty  per  cent. 

For  four  years  after  his  death,  however,  only  a  mod 
erate  dividend  was  declared  by  the  company,  but  always 
with  brilliant  promises  for  the  future ;  the  fifty  per  cent., 
like  the  "  good  time  coming  "  in  the  song,  was  a  thing  to 
look  forward  to,  as  the  end  of  many  little  retrenchments 
and  economies ;  and  now  suddenly  comes  this  letter,  an 
nouncing  to  them  an  indefinite  suspension  of  their  in 
come. 

Mrs.  Betsey  could  scarcely  be  made  to  believe  it. 

"  Why,  they've  got  all  our  money;  are  they  going  to 
keep  it,  and  not  pay  us  anything?" 

"  That  seems  to  be  their  intention,"  said  Miss  Dorcas 
grimly. 

"  But,  Dorcas,  I  wouldn't  have  it  so.  I'd  rather  have 
our  money  back  again  in  United  States  stock." 

"  So  had  I." 

"Well,  if  you  write  and  ask  them  for  it,  and  tell 
them  that  you  must  have  it,  and  can't  get  along  without, 
won't  they  send  it  back  to  you?" 

"  No,  they  won't  think  of  such  a  thing.  They  never 
do  business  that  way." 

"  Won't  ?  Why,  I  never  heard  of  such  folks.  Why, 
there's  no  justice  in  it." 

"  You  do  n't  understand  these  things,  Betsey ;  nor  I, 
very  well.  All  I  know  is,  that  Dick  took  our  money 
and  bought  stock  with  it,  and  we  are  stockholders  of 
this  company." 


THE    UNPROTECTED  FEMALE.  451 

"And  what  is  being  a  stockholder?" 

"  As  far  as  I  can  perceive,  it  is  this  :  when  old  women 
like  you  and  me  are  stockholders,  it  means  that  a  com 
pany  of  men  take  our  money  and  use  it  for  their  own 
purposes,  and  pay  us  what  they  like,  when  it  comes  con 
venient;  and  when  it's  not  convenient,  they  don't  pay  us 
at  all.  It  is  borrowing  people's  money,  without  paying 
interest." 

"Why,  that  is  horrid.  Why,  it's  the  most  unjust 
thing  I  ever  heard  of,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey.  "  Do  n't  you 
think  so,  Dorcas  ?" 

"  Well,  it  seems  so  to  me ;  but  women  never  under 
stand  business.  Dick  used  to  say  so.  The  fact  is,  old 
women  have  no  business  anywhere,"  said  Miss  Dorcas 
bitterly.  "  It's  time  we  were  out  of  the  world." 

"I'm  sure  I  haven't  wanted  to  live  so  very  much," 
said  Mrs.  Betsey,  tremulously.  "  I  do  n't  want  to  die, 
but  I  had  quite  as  lieve  be  dead." 

"Come,  Betsey,  don't  let  us  talk  that  way," said  Miss 
Dorcas.  "We  sha'n't  gain  anything  by  flying  in  the  face 
of  Providence." 

"But,  Dorcas,  I  don't  think  it  can  be  quite  as  bad  as 
you  think.  People  couldn't  be  so  bad,  if  they  knew  just 
how  much  we  wanted  our  money.  Why,  we  haven't 
anything  to  go  on — only  think  !  The  company  has  been 
making  money,  you  say  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  never  so  large  profits  as  this  year ;  but,  in 
stead  of  paying  the  stockholders,  they  have  voted  to  put 
up  a  new  mill  and  enlarge  the  business." 

"Who  voted  so?" 

"  The  stockholders  themselves.  As  far  as  I  can  learn, 
that  means  one  or  two  men  who  have  bought  all  the 
stock,  and  now  can  do  what  they  like." 

"  But  could  n't  you  go  to  the  stockholders'  meeting 
and  vote  ?" 


452  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  What  good  would  it  do,  if  I  have  but  ten  votes, 
where  each  of  these  men  has  five  hundred  ?  They  have 
money  enough.  They  don't  need  this  income  to  live  on, 
and  so  they  use  it,  as  they  say,  to  make  the  property 
more  valuable ;  and  perhaps,  Betsey,  when  we  are  both 
dead,  it  will  pay  fifty  per  cent,  to  somebody,  just  as  Dick 
always  said  it  would." 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  "  of  what  use  will  that  be  to  us, 
when  what  we  want  is  something  to  live  on  now  ?  Why, 
we  can't  get  along  without  income,  Dorcas, do'nt you  see?" 

"  I  think  I  do,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  grimly. 

"Why,  why,  what  shall  we  do?" 

"Well,  we  can  sell  the  house,  I  suppose." 

"Sell  the  house!"  said  poor  little  Mrs.  Betsey, aghast 
at  the  thought ;  "  and  where  could  we  go  ?  and  what 
should  we  do  with  all  our  things?  I'd  rather  die,  and 
done  with  it ;  and  if  we  got  any  money  and  put  it  into 
anything,  people  would  just  take  it  and  use  it,  and  not 
pay  us  income ;  or  else  it  would  all  go  just  as  my  money 
did  that  Dick  put  into  that  Aurora  bank.  That  was 
going  to  make  our  everlasting  fortune.  There  was  no 
end  to  the  talk  about  what  it  would  do — and  all  of  a 
sudden  the  bank  burst  up,  and  my  money  was  all  gone 
— never  gave  me  back  a  cent !  and  /  should  like  to  know 
where  it  went  to.  Somebody  had  that  ten  thousand  dol 
lars  of  mine,  but  it  was  n't  me.  No,  we  wo  n't  sell  the 
house;  it's  all  we've  got  left,  and  as  long  as  it's  here 
we've  got  a  right  to  be  somewhere.  We  can  stay  here  and 
starve,  I  suppose ! — you  and  I  and  Jack." 

Jack,  perceiving  by  his  mistress's  tones  that  some 
thing  was  the  matter,  here  jumped  into  her  lap  and 
kissed  her. 

"Yes,  you  poor  doggie,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  crying; 
"  we'll  all  starve  together.  How  much  money  have  you 
got  left,  Dorcas?" 


THE    UNPROTECTED  FEMALE.  453 

Miss  Dorcas  drew  out  an  old  porte-monnaie  and 
opened  it. 

"Twenty  dollars." 

"  Oh,  go  'way,  Miss  Dorcas ;  ye  do  n't  know  what  a 
lot  I's  got  stowed  away  in  my  old  tea-pot!"  chuckled  a 
voice  from  behind  the  scenes,  and  Dinah's  woolly  head 
and  brilliant  ivories  appeared  at  the  slide  of  the  china- 
closet,  where  she  had  been  an  unabashed  and  interested 
listener  to  the  conversation. 

"  Dinah,  I'm  surprised,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  with  dig 
nity. 

"Well,  y'  can  be  surprised  and  git  over  it,"  said 
Dinah,  rolling  her  portly  figure  into  the  conversation. 
"All  I's  got  to  say  is,  dere  ain't  no  use  for  Mis'  Betsey 
here  to  be  worritin'  and  gettin'  into  a  bad  spell  'bout 
money,  so  long  as  I's  got  three  hundred  dollars  laid  up 
in  my  tea-pot.  'Tain't  none  o'  your  rags  neither,"  said 
Dinah,  who  was  strong  on  the  specie  question — "  good 
bright  silver  dollars,  and  gold  guineas,  and  eagles,  I 
tucked  away  years  ago,  when  your  Pa  was  alive,  and 
money  was  plenty.  Look  a-heah  now  !" — and  Dinah  em 
phasized  her  statement  by  rolling  a  handful  of  old  gold 
guineas  upon  the  table — "  Dare  now ;  see  dar !  Do  n't 
catch  me  foolin'  away  no  money  wid  no  banks  and  no 
stockholders.  I  keeps  pretty  tight  grip  o'mine.  Tell 
you,  'fore  I'd  let  dem  gemmen  hab  my  money  I'd  braid  it 
up  in  my  har — and  den  I'd  know  where  'twas  when  I 
wanted  it." 

"Dinah,  you  dear  old  soul,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  "  you  do  n't  think  we'd  live  on  your 
money?" 

"  Dun  no  why  you  should  n't,  as  well  as  me  live  on 
yourn,"  said  Dinah.  "It's  all  in  de  family,  and  turn 
about's  fair  play.  Why,  good  land!  Miss  Dorcas,  I  jest 
lotted  on  savin 't  up  for  de  family.  You  can  use  mine 


454  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

and  give  it  back  agin  when  dat  ar  good  time  comes 
Massa  Dick  was  allers  a-tellin'  about." 

Mrs.  Betsey  fell  into  Dinah's  arms,  and  cried  on  her 
shoulder,  declaring  that  she  could  n't  take  a  cent  of  her 
money,  and  that  they  were  all  ruined,  and  fell  into  what 
Dinah  used  to  call  one  of  her  "bad  spells."  So  she 
swept  her  up  in  her  arms  forthwith  and  carried  her  up 
stairs  and  put  her  to  bed,  amid  furious  dissentient  bark 
ings  from  Jack,  who  seemed  to  consider  it  his  duty  to 
express  an  opinion  in  the  matter. 

"  Dar  now,  ye  aggrevatin'  critter,  lie  down  and  shet 
up,"  she  said  to  Jack,  as  she  lifted  him  on  to  the  bed  and 
saw  him  cuddle  down  in  Mrs.  Betsey's  arms  and  lay  his 
rough  cheek  against  hers. 

Dinah  remembered,  years  before,  her  young  mistress 
lying  weak  and  faint  on  that  same  spot,  and  how  there 
had  been  the  soft  head  of  a  baby  lying  where  Jack's 
rough  head  was  now  nestling,  and  her  heart  swelled 
within  her. 

"Now,  then,"  she  said,  pouring  out  some  drops  and 
giving  them  to  her,  "  you  jest  hush  up  and  go  to  sleep, 
honey.  Miss  Dorcas  and  I,  we'll  fix  up  this  'ere.  It  '11 
all  come  straight — now  you'll  see  it  will.  Why,  de  Lord 
ain't  gwine  to  let  you  starve.  Never  see  de  righteous 
forsaken.  Jest  go  to  sleep,  honey,  and  it  '11  be  all  right 
when  you  wake  up." 

Meanwhile,  Miss  Dorcas  had  gone  across  the  way  to 
consult  with  Eva.  The  opening  of  the  friendship  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way  had  been  a  relief  to  her  from 
the  desolateness  and  loneliness  of  her  life  circle,  and  she 
had  come  to  that  degree  of  friendly  reliance  that  she  felt 
she  could  state  her  dilemma  and  ask  advice. 

"  I  don't  see  any  way  but  I  must  come  to  selling  the 
house  at  last,"  said  Miss  Dorcas;  "but  I  don't  know  how 
to  set  about  it ;  and  if  we  have  to  leave,  at  our  age,  life 


THE    UNPROTECTED  FEMALE.  455 

won't   seem   worth   having.      I'm   afraid   it   would   kill 
Betsey." 

"  Dear  Miss  Dorcas,  we  can't  afford  to  lose  you,"  said 
Eva.  "You  don't  know  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  have  you 
over  there,  so  nice  and  handy — why,  it  would  be  forlorn 
to  have  you  go;  it  would  break  us  all  up!" 

"You  are  kind  to  say  so,"  said  Miss  Dorcas;  "but  I 
can't  help  feeling  that  the  gain  of  our  being  there  is  all 
on  one  side." 

"  But,  dear  Miss  Dorcas,  why  need  you  move  ?  See 
here.  A  bright  thought  strikes  me.  Your  house  is  so 
large!  Why  could  n't  you  rent  half  of  it?  You  really 
don't  need  it  all ;  and  I'm  sure  it  could  easily  be  arranged 
for  two  families.  Do  think  of  that,  please." 

"If  it  could  be  done — if  anybody  would  want  it!" 
said  Miss  Dorcas. 

"  Oh,  just  let  us  go  over  this  minute  and  see,"  said 
Eva,  as  she  threw  a  light  cloud  of  worsted  over  her  head, 
and  seizing  Miss  Dorcas  by  the  arm,  crossed  back  with 
her,  talking  cheerfully. 

"  Here  you  have  it,  nice  as  possible.  Your  front  par 
lor —  you  never  sit  there ;  and  it's  only  a  care  to  have  a 
room  you  don't  use.  And  then  this  great  empty  office 
back  here — a  dining-room  all  ready !  and  there  is  a  back 
shed  that  could  have  a  cooking-stove,  and  be  fitted  into 
a  kitchen.  Why,  the  thing  is  perfect ;  and  there's  your 
income,  without  moving  a  peg !  See  what  it  is  to  have 
real  estate!" 

"You  are  very  sanguine,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  looking 
a  little  brightened  herself.  "  I  have  often  thought  my 
self  that  the  house  is  a  great  deal  larger  than  we  need ; 
but  I  am  quite  helpless  about  such  matters.  We  are  so 
out  of  the  world.  I  know  nothing  of  business;  real 
estate  agents  are  my  horror  ;  and  I  have  no  man  to  ad- 


456  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Dorcas,  wait  now  till  I  consult  Harry. 
I'm  sure  something  nice  could  be  arranged." 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  "  if  these  rooms  were 
in  a  fashionable  quarter  we  might  let  them;  but  the 
world  has  long  since  left  our  house  in  the  rear." 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  Eva.  "You  see  we  don't 
mind  fashion,  and  there  may  be  neighbors  as  good  as 
we,  of  the  same  mind." 

Eva  already  had  one  of  her  visions  in  her  head ;  but 
of  this  she  did  not  speak  to  Miss  Dorcas  till  she  had 
matured  it. 

She  knew  Jim  Fellows  had  been  for  weeks  on  the 
keen  chase  after  apartments,  and  that  none  yet  had 
presented  themselves  as  altogether  eligible.  Alice  had 
insisted  on  an  economical  beginning,  and  the  utmost 
prudence  as  to  price ;  and  the  result  had  been,  what  is 
usual  in  such  cases,  that  all  the  rooms  that  would  do  at 
all  were  too  dear. 

Eva  saw  at  once  in  this  suite  of  rooms,  right  across 
the  way  from  them,  the  very  thing  they  were  in  search 
of.  The  rooms  were  large  and  sunny,  with  a  quaint, 
old-fashioned  air  of  by-gone  gentility  that  made  them 
attractive  ;  and  her  artist  imagination  at  once  went  into 
the  work  of  brightening  up  their  tarnished  and  dusky 
respectability  with  a  nice  little  modern  addition  of  pict 
ures  and  flowers,  and  new  bits  of  furniture  here  and 
there. 

Just  as  she  returned  from  her  survey,  she  found  Jim 
in  her  own  parlor,  with  a  thriving  pot  of  ivy. 

"Well,  here's  one  for  our  parlor  window,  when  we 
find  one,"  said  he.  "I'm  a  boy  that  gets  things  when 
I  see  them.  Now  you  don't  often  see  an  ivy  so  thrifty 
as  this,  and  I've  brought  it  to  you  to  take  care  of  till 
I  find  the  room !  " 

"Jim,"  said  Eva,  "I  believe  just  what  you  want  is  to 


THE    UNPROTECTED  FEMALE.  45? 

be  found  right  across  the  way  from  us,  so  that  we  can 
talk  across  from  your  windows  to  ours." 

"What!  the  old  Vanderheyden  house?  Thunder!" 
said  Jim. 

Now,  Jim  was  one  of  the  class  of  boys  who  make 
free  use  of  "  thunder  "  in  conversation,  without  meaning 
to  express  anything  more  by  it  than  a  state  of  slight 
surprise. 

"What's  up  now?"  he  added.  "I  should  as  soon 
expect  Queen  Victoria  to  rent  Buckingham  Palace  as 
that  the  old  ladies  across  the  way  would  come  to  letting 
rooms!'* 

"Necessity  has  no  law,  Jim."  And  then  Eva  told 
him  Miss  Dorcas's  misfortune. 

"Poor  old  girls!"  said  Jim.  "I  do  declare  it's  too 
thundering  bad.  I'll  go  right  over  and  rent  the  rooms ; 
and  I'll  pay  up  square,  too,  and  no  mistake." 

"  Shall  I  go  with  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  just  leave  that  to  me.  Two  are  all  that  are 
needed  in  a  bargain." 

In  a  few  minutes,  Jim  was  at  his  ease  in  front  of  Miss 
Dorcas,  saying  : 

"  Miss  Dorcas,  the  fact  is,  I  want  to  hire  a  suite  of 
rooms.  You  see,  I'm  going  to  have  a  wife  before  long, 
and  nothing  will  suit  her  so  well  as  this  neighborhood. 
Now,  if  you  will  only  rent  us  half  of  your  house,  we  shall 
behave  so  beautifully  that  you  never  will  be  sorry  you 
took  us  in." 

Miss  Dorcas  apologized  for  the  rooms  and  furniture. 
They  were  old,  she  knew — not  in  modern  style — but 
such  as  they  were,  would  he  just  go  through  them?  and 
Jim  made  the  course  with  her.  And  the  short  of  the 
matter  was,  that  the  bargain  was  soon  struck. 

Jim  stated  frankly  the  sum  he  felt  able  to  pay  for 
apartments ;  to  Miss  Dorcas  the  sum  seemed  ample 
U 


458  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

enough  to  relieve  all  her  embarrassments,  and  in  an  hour 
he  returned  to  the  other  side,  having  completed  the 
arrangement. 

"There,  now, — we're  anchored,  I  think.  The  old 
folks  and  Aunt  Maria  have  been  wanting  me  to  marry 
on  and  live  with  them  in  the  old  hive,  but  Jim  does  n't 
put  his  foot  into  that  trap,  if  he  knows  it.  My  wife 
and  I  must  have  our  own  establishment,  if  it's  only  in 
two  rooms.  Now  it's  all  settled,  if  Allie  likes  it,  and  I 
know  she  will.  By  George,  it's  a  lucky  hit !  That  par 
lor  will  brighten  up  capitally." 

"You  know,  old  furniture  is  all  the  rage  now,"  said 
Eva,  "  and  you  can  buy  things  here  and  there  as  you 
want." 

"Yes,"  said  Jim;  "you  know  I  did  buy  a  pair  of 
brass  andirons  when  I  was  going  to  ask  Allie  to  have 
me,  and  they'll  be  just  the  things  for  the  fireplace  over 
there.  Miss  Dorcas  apologized  for  the  want  of  those 
that  belonged  there  by  saying  that  her  brother  had  taken 
them  to  pieces  to  try  some  experiments  in  brass  polish 
ing,  and  never  found  time  to  put  them  together  again, 
and  so  parts  of  them  got  lost.^  I  told  her  it  was  a  special 
providence  that  I  happened  to  have  the  very  pair  that 
were  needed  there;  and  there's  a  splendid  sunny  win 
dow  for  the  ivies  on  the  south  corner!" 

"That  old  furniture  is  lovely,"  said  Eva.  "It's  like 
a  dark,  rich  background  to  a  picture.  All  your  little 
bright  modern  things  will  show  so  well  over  it." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  bring  Allie  down  to  go  over  it, 
this  minute,"  said  Jim,  who  was  not  of  the  class  that 
allow  the  grass  to  grow  under  their  feet. 

Meanwhile,  when  little  Mrs.  Betsey  came  down  to 
dinner,  she  found  the  storm  over,  and  clear,  shining  after 
rain. 

"What,   Mr.  Fellows!"  she  exclaimed;    "that  dear, 


THE    UNPROTECTED  FEMALE.  459 

good  young  man  that  was  so  kind  to  Jack !  Why,  Dor 
cas,  what  a  providence !  I'm  sure  it'll  be  a  mercy  to 
have  a  man  in  the  house  once  more !" 

"Why,  I'm  sure,"  said  Miss  Dorcas,  "your  great  fear 
that  you  wake  me  up  every  night  about,  is  that  there  is 
a  man  in  the  house!" 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  laughing  cheerfully; 
"you  know  what  I  mean.  I  mean  the  right  kind  of  a 
man.  I've  thought  that  those  dreadful  burglars  and 
creatures  that  break  into  houses  where  there's  old  silver 
must  find  us  out — because,  Dorcas,  really,  that  hat  that 
we  keep  on  the  entry  table  is  so  big  and  dusty,  and  so 
different  from  what  they  wear  now,  they  must  know  that 
no  man  wears  a  hat  like  that.  I've  always  told  Dinah 
that — she  knows  I  have,  more  than  twenty  times." 

A  snicker  from  the  adjacent  china-closet,  where 
Dinah  was  listening,  confirmed  this  statement. 

"  Why,  it's  such  a  nice  thing.  Why,  there's  no  end 
to  it,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  whose  cheerfulness  increased 
with  reflection.  "A  real  live  man  in  the  house ! — and  a 
young  man,  too! — and  such  a  nice  one;  and  dear  Miss 
Alice — why,  only  think,  bringing  all  her  wedding  clothes 
to  the  house,  and  I  don't  doubt  she'll  show  them  all  to 
me — and  it'll  be  so  nice  for  Jack  !  won't  it,  Jack?" 

Jack  barked  his  assent  vigorously,  and  a  second  ex 
plosive  chuckle  from  the  china  closet  betrayed  Dinah's 
profound  sympathy.  The  faithful  creature  was  rolling 
and  boiling  in  waves  of  triumphant  merriment  behind 
the  scenes.  The  conversation  of  her  mistresses  in  fact 
appeared  to  be  a  daily  source  of  amusement  to  her,  and 
Miss  Dorcas  was  forced  to  wink  at  this  espionage,  in 
consideration  of  Dinah's  limited  sources  of  entertain 
ment,  and  generally  pretended  not  to  know  that  she  was 
there. 

On  the  present  occasion,  Dinah's  contribution  to  the 


460  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

interview  was  too  evident  to  be  ignored,  but  Miss  Dor 
cas  listened  to  it  with  indulgence.  A  good  prospect  of 
regular  income  does,  after  all,  strengthen  one's  faith  in 
Providence,  and  dispose  one  to  be  easily  satisfied  with 
one's  fellows. 


CHAPTER  L. 
EVA  TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER. 

DEAR  MOTHER:  You've  no  idea  how  things  have 
gone  on  within  a  short  time.  I  have  been  so  ex 
cited  and  so  busy,  and  kept  in  such  a  state  of  constant 
consultation,  for  this  past  week,  that  I  have  had  no  time 
to  keep  up  my  bulletins  to  you. 

Well,  dear  mother,  it  is  at  last  concluded  that  we  are 
to  have  two  weddings  on  one  day,  the  second  week  after 
Easter,  when  Alice  is  to  be  married  to  Jim  Fellows,  and 
Angie  to  Mr.  St.  John. 

Easter  comes  this  year  about  the  latest  that  it  ever 
does,  so  that  we  may  hope  for  sunny  spring  weather,  and 
at  least  a  few  crocuses  and  hyacinths  in  the  borders,  as 
good  omens  for  the  future.  I  wish  you  could  choose 
this  time  to  make  your  long-promised  visit  and  see  how 
gay  and  festive  we  all  are.  Just  now,  every  one  is  over 
whelmed  with  business,  and  the  days  go  off  very  fast. 

Aunt  Maria  is  in  her  glory,  as  generalissimo  of  the 
forces  and  dictator  of  all  things.  It  is  for  just  such 
crises  that  she  was  born ;  she  has  now  fairly  enough  to 
manage  to  keep  her  contented  with  everybody,  and  every 
body  contented  with  her — which,  by-the-bye,  is  not  al 
ways  the  case  in  her  history. 

It  is  decreed  that  the  wedding  is  to  be  a  morning 
one,  in  Mr.  St.  John's  little  chapel ;  and  that,  after  the  re 
ception  at  mamma's,  Jim  will  start  with  Alice  to  visit  his 
family  friends,  and  Angie  and  St.  John  will  go  immedi 
ately  on  the  steamer  to  sail  for  Europe,  where  they  will 
spend  the  summer  in  traveling  and  be  back  again  in  the 


462  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

autumn.  Meanwhile,  they  have  engaged  a  house  in  that 
part  of  the  city  where  their  mission  work  lies,  and  of 
course,  like  ours,  it  is  on  an  unfashionable  street — a 
thing  which  grieves  Aunt  Maria,  who  takes  every  occa 
sion  to  say  that  Mr.  St.  John,  being  a  man  of  indepen 
dent  fortune,  is  entitled  to  live  genteelly.  I  am  glad, 
because  they  are  within  an  easy  distance  of  us,  which 
will  be  nice.  Aunt  Maria  and  mamma  are  to  see  to 
getting  the  house  all  ready  for  them  to  go  into  when  they 
return. 

Bolton  is  going  over  with  them,  to  visit  Paris !  The 
fact  is,  since  I  opened  communication  between  him  and 
Caroline,  her  letters  to  me  have  grown  short  and  infre 
quent,  and  her  letters  to  him  long  and  constant,  and  the 
effect  on  him  has  been  magical.  I  have  never  seen  him 
in  such  good  spirits.  Those  turns  of  morbid  depression 
that  he  used  to  have,  seem  to  be  fading  away  gradually. 
He  has  been  with  us  so  much  that  I  feel  almost  as  if  he 
were  a  member  of  our  family,  and  I  cannot  but  feel  that 
our  home  has  been  a  shelter  and  a  strength  to  him. 
What  would  it  be  to  have  a  happy  one  of  his  own  ?  I 
am  sure  he  deserves  it,  if  ever  kindness,  unselfishness, 
and  true  nobleness  of  heart  deserved  it :  and  I  am  sure 
that  Caroline  is  wise  enough  and  strong  enough  to  give 
him  just  the  support  that  he  needs. 

Then  there's  Alice's  engagement  to  Jim.  I  have  long 
foreseen  to  what  her  friendship  for  him  would  grow,  and 
though  she  had  many  hesitations,  yet  now  she  is  per 
fectly  happy  in  it ;  and  only  think  how  nice  it  is !  They 
are  to  take  half  the  old  Vanderheyden  house,  opposite 
to  us,  so  that  we  can  see  the  lights  of  each  other's  hearths 
across  from  each  other's  windows. 

Mother,  does  n't  it  seem  as  if  our  bright,  cosy,  happy, 
free-and-easy  home  was  throwing  out  as  many  side-shoots 
as  a  lilac  bush  ? 


EVA    TO  HARRY'S  MOTHER.  463 

Just  think ;  in  easy  vicinity,  we  shall  have  Jim  and 
Alice,  Angie  and  St.  John,  and,  as  I  believe,  Bolton  and 
Caroline.  We  shall  be  a  guild  of  householders,  who  hold 
the  same  traditions,  walk  by  the  same  rule,  and  mind 
the  same  things.  Won't  it  be  lovely?  What  nice 
"droppings  in"  and  visitings  and  tea-drinkings  and  con- 
suitings  we  shall  have!  And  it  is  not  merely  having 
good  times  either ;  but,  Mother,  the  more  I  think  of  it, 
the  more  I  think  the  making  of  bright,  happy  homes  is 
the  best  way  of  helping  on  the  world  that  has  been  dis 
covered  yet.  A  home  is  a  thing  that  can  't  be  for  one's 
own  self  alone — at  least  the  kind  of  home  we  are  think 
ing  of;  it  reaches  out  on  all  sides  and  helps  and  shelters 
and  comforts  others.  Even  my  little  experiment  of  a 
few  months  ago  shows  me  that  j  and  I  know  that 
Angie 's  and  St.  John's  home  will  be  even  more  so  than 
ours.  Angie  was  born  to  be  a  rector's  wife ;  to  have  a 
kind  word  and  a  smile  and  a  good  deed  for  everybody, 
to  love  everybody  dearly,  and  keep  everybody  bright  and 
in  good  spirits.  It  is  amazing  to  see  the  change  she  has 
wrought  in  St.  John.  He  was  fast  getting  into  a  sort  of 
stringent,  morbid  asceticism ;  now  he  is  so  gracious,  so 
genial,  and  so  entertaining, — he  is  like  a  rock,  in  June,  all 
bursting  out  with  anemones  and  columbines  in  every 
rift, 

As  to  Jim  and  Alice,  you  ought  to  see  how  happy 
they  are  in  consulting  me  about  the  arrangements  of 
their  future  home  in  the  Vanderheyden  house.  And  the 
best  of  it  is,  to  see  how  perfectly  delighted  the  two  old 
ladies  are  to  have  them  there.  You  must  know  that 
there  was  a  sudden  failure  in  Miss  Dorcas's  income 
which  would  have  made  it  necessary  to  sell  the  house 
had  it  not  been  for  just  this  arrangement.  But  they  are 
as  gracious  and  kind  about  it  as  if  they  were  about  to 
receive  guests ;  and  every  improvement  and  every  addi- 


464  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

tional  touch  of  brightness  to  the  rooms  seems  to  please 
them  as  much  as  if  they  were  going  to  be  married  them 
selves. 

Miss  Dorcas  said  to  me  that  our  coming  to  live  in 
their  neighborhood  had  been  the  greatest  blessing  to 
them  that  ever  had  happened  for  years — that  it  had 
opened  a  new  life  to  them. 

As  to  Maggie,  dear  Mother,  she  is  becoming  a  real 
comfort  to  me.  I  do  think  that  all  the  poor  girl's  sor 
rows  and  sufferings  have  not  been  xin  vain,  and  that  she 
is  now  a  true  and  humble  Christian. 

She  has  been  very  useful  in  this  sudden  hurry  of 
work  that  has  fallen  upon  us,  and  seems  really  delighted 
to  be  so.  In  our  group  of  families,  Maggie  will  always 
find  friends.  Angie  wants  her  to  come  and  live  with 
them  when  they  begin  housekeeping,  and  I  think  I  shall 
let  her  go. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  dreadful  things  I  saw  the 
night  I  went  after  her.  They  have  sunk  deep  into  my 
heart ;  and  I  hope,  Mother,  I  see  more  clearly  the  deep 
est  and  noblest  purpose  of  life,  so  as  never  again  to 
forget  it. 

But,  meantime,  a  thousand  little  cares  break  and 
fritter  themselves  on  my  heart,  like  waves  on  a  rock. 
Everybody  is  running  to  me,  every  hour.  I  am  consulter 
and  sympathizer  and  adviser,  from  the  shape  ot  a  bow 
and  the  positions  of  trimming  up  to  the  profoundest 
questions  of  casuistry.  They  all  talk  to  me,  and  I  divide 
my  heart  among  them  all,  and  so  the  days  fly  by  with 
frightful  rapidity,  and  I  fear  I  shall  get  little  time  to 
write,  so  pray  come  and  see  for  yourself 

Your  loving 

EVA. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

THE    HOUR    AND    THE    WOMAN. 

IT  is  said  that  Queen  Elizabeth  could  converse  in  five 
languages,  and  dictate  to  three  secretaries  at  once,  in 
different  tongues,  with  the  greatest  ease  and  composure. 

Perhaps  it  might  have  been  so — let  us  not  quarrel  with 
her  laurels;  it  only  shows  what  women  can  do  if  they 
set  about  it,  and  is  not  a  whit  more  remarkable  than 
Aunt  Maria's  triumphant  management  of  all  the  details 
of  two  weddings  at  one  time. 

That  estimable  individual  has  not,  we  fear,  always 
appeared  to  advantage  in  this  history,  and  it  is  due  to 
her  now  to  say  that  nobody  that  saw  her  proceedings 
could  help  feeling  the  beauty  of  the  right  person  in  the 
right  place. 

Many  a  person  is  held  to  be  a  pest  and  a  nuisance 
because  there  isn't  enough  to  be  done  to  use  up  his 
capabilities.  Aunt  Maria  had  a  passion  for  superintend 
ing  and  directing,  and  all  that  was  wanting  to  bring 
things  right  was  an  occasion  when  a  great  deal  of  super 
intendence  and  direction  was  wanting. 

The  double  wedding  in  the  family  just  fulfilled  all 
the  conditions.  It  opened  a  field  to  her  that  everybody 
was  more  than  thankful  to  have  her  occupy. 

Lovers,  we  all  know,  are,  ex-officio,  ranked  among  the 
incapables;  and  if,  while  they  were  mooning  round  in 
the  fairy-land  of  sentiment,  some  good,  strong,  active, 
practical  head  were  not  at  work  upon  the  details  of  real 
life,  nothing  would  be  on  time  at  the  wedding.  Now,  if 
this  be  true  of  one  wedding,  how  much  more  of  two !  So 
Aunt  Maria  stepped  at  once  into  command  by  acclama- 


406  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

tion  and  addressed  herself  to  her  work  as  a  strong  man 
to  run  a  race ;  and  while  Angle  and  St.  John  spent  bliss 
ful  hours  in  the  back  parlor,  and  Jim  and  Alice  monop 
olized  the  library,  Aunt  Maria  flew  all  over  New  York, 
and  arranged  about  all  the  towels  and  table-cloths  and 
napkins  and  doilies,  down  to  the  very  dish-cloths.  She 
overlooked  armies  of  sewing  women,  milliners  and 
mantua-makers — the  most  slippery  of  all  mortal  creat 
ures — and  drove  them  all  up  to  have  each  her  quota  in 
time.  She,  with  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  made  lists  of  people 
to  be  invited,  and  busied  herself  with  getting  samples 
and  terms  from  fancy  stationers  for  the  wedding  cards. 
She  planned  in  advance  all  the  details  of  the  wedding 
feast,  and  engaged  the  cake  and  fruit  and  ice-cream. 

Nor  did  she  forget  the  social  and  society  exigencies 
of  the  crisis. 

She  found  time,  dressed  in  her  best,  to  take  Mrs.  Van 
Arsdel  in  full  panoply  to  return  the  call  of  Mrs.  Dr. 
Gracey,  who  had  come,  promptly  and  properly,  with  the 
doctor,  to  recognize  Miss  Angelique  and  felicitate  about 
the  engagement  of  their  nephew. 

She  arranged  for  a  dinner-party  to  be  given  by  Mrs. 
Van  Arsdel,  where  the  doctor  and  his  lady  were  to  be 
received  into  family  alliance,  and  testimonies  of  high 
consideration  accorded  to  them.  Aunt  Maria  took  oc 
casion,  in  private  converse  with  Mrs.  Dr.  Gracey,  to 
assure  her  of  her  very  great  esteem  and  respect  for  Mr. 
St.  John,  and  her  perfect  conviction  that  he  was  on  the 
right  road  now,  and  that,  though  he  might  possibly  burn 
a  few  more  candles  in  his  chapel,  yet,  when  he  came 
fully  under  family  influences,  they  would  gradually  be 
snuffed  out, — intimating  that  she  intended  to  be  aunt,  not 
only  to  Arthur,  but  to  his  chapel  and  his  mission-work. 

The  extraordinary  and  serene  meekness  with  which 
that  young  divine  left  every  question  of  form  and  eti- 


THE  HOUR  AND    THE    WOMAN.  467 

quette  to  her  management,  and  the  sort  of  dazed  humil 
ity  with  which  he  listened  to  all  her  rulings  about  the 
arrangements  of  the  wedding-day,  had  inspired  in  Aunt 
Maria's  mind  such  hopes  of  his  docility  as  led  to  these 
very  sanguine  anticipations. 

It  is  true  that,  when  it  came  to  the  question  of  rent 
ing  a  house,  she  found  him  quietly  but  unalterably  set 
on  a  small  and  modest  little  mansion  in  the  unfashion 
able  neighborhood  where  his  work  lay. 

"Arthur  is  going  on  with  his  mission,"  said  Angel- 
ique,  "and  I'm  going  to  help  him,  and  we  must  live 
where  we  can  do  most  good" — a  reason  to  which  Aunt 
Maria  was  just  now  too  busy  to  reply,  but  she  satisfied 
herself  by  discussing  at  length  the  wedding  affairs  with 
Mrs.  Dr.  Gracey. 

"  Of  course,  Mrs.  Gracey,"  she  said,  "  we  all  feel  that 
if  dear  Dr.  Gracey  is  to  conduct  the  wedding  services, 
everything  will  be  in  the  good  old  way;  there  '11  be 
nothing  objectionable  or  unusual." 

"Oh,  you  may  rely  on  that,  Mrs.  Wouvermans,"  re 
plied  the  lady.  "  The  doctor  is  not  the  man  to  run 
after  novelties ;  he's  a  good  old-fashioned  Episcopalian. 
Though  he  always  has  been  very  indulgent  to  Arthur,  he 
thinks,  as  our  dear  bishop  does,  that  if  young  men  are 
left  to  themselves,  and  not  fretted  by  opposition,  they 
will  gradually  outgrow  these  things." 

"Precisely  so,"  said  Aunt  Maria;  "just  what  I  have 
always  thought.  For  my  part  I  always  said  that  it  was 
safe  to  trust  the  bishop." 

Did  Aunt  Maria  believe  this?  She  certainly  appeared 
to.  She  sincerely  supposed  that  this  was  what  she 
always  had  thought  and  said,  and  quite  forgot  the  times 
when  she  used  to  wonder  "what  our  bishop  could  be 
thinking  of,  to  let  things  go  so." 

It  was  one  blessed  facility  of  this  remarkable  woman 


468  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

that  she  generally  came  to  the  full  conviction  of  the 
axiom  that  "whatever  is,  is  right,"  and  took  up  and 
patronized  anything  that  would  succeed  in  spite  of  her 
best  efforts  to  prevent  it. 

So,  in  announcing  the  double  wedding  to  her  fash 
ionable  acquaintance,  she  placed  everything,  as  the 
popular  saying  is,  best  foot  foremost. 

Mr.  Fellows  was  a  young  man  of  fine  talents,  great 
industry  and  elegant  manners,  a  great  favorite  in  society, 
and  likely  to  take  the  highest  rank  in  his  profession. 
Alice  had  refused  richer  offers — she  might  perhaps  have 
done  better  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  but  it  was  purely 
a  love  match,  &c.,  &c.  And  Mr.  St.  John,  a  young  man 
of  fine  family  and  independent  fortune,  who  might  com 
mand  all  the  elegancies  of  life,  was  going  to  live  in  a 
distant  and  obscure  quarter,  to  labor  in  his  work.  These 
facts  brought  forth,  of  course,  bursts  of  sympathy  and 
congratulation,  and  Aunt  Maria  went  off  on  the  top  of 
the  wave. 

Eva  had  but  done  her  aunt  justice  when  she  told  her 
mother  that  Aunt  Maria  would  be  all  the  more  amiable 
for  the  firm  stand  which  the  young  wife  had  taken  against 
any  interference  with  her  family  matters.  It  was  so. 
Aunt  Maria  was  as  balmy  to  Eva  as  if  that  discussion  had 
never  taken  place,  though  it  must  be  admitted  that  Eva 
was  a  very  difficult  person  to  keep  up  a  long  quarrel  with. 

But  just  at  this  hour,  when  the  whole  family  were  at 
her  feet,  when  it  was  her  voice  that  decided  every  ques 
tion,  when  she  knew  where  everything  was  and  was  to 
be,  and  when  everything  was  to  be  done,  she  was  too 
well  pleased  to  be  unamiable.  She  was  the  spirit  of  the 
whole  affair,  and  she  plumed  herself  joyously  when  all 
the  callers  at  the  house  said  to  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  "  Dear 
me!  what  would  you  do,  if  it  were  not  for  your  sister?" 

Verily  she  had  her  reward. 


CHAPTER  LI  I. 

EVA'S   CONSULTATIONS. 

"  "X  TOW  see  here,"  said  Jim,  coming  in  upon  Eva  as 
1  >|  she  sat  alone  in  her  parlor,  "  I've  got  something 
on  my  mind  I  want  to  talk  with  you  about.  You  see, 
Alice  and  I  are  to  be  married  at  the  same  time  with 
Angie  and  St.  John." 

"Yes,  I  see  it." 

"  Well,  now,  what  I  want  to  say  is,  that  I  really  hope 
there  won't  be  anything  longer  and  harder  and  more  cir 
cumlocutory  to  be  got  through  with  on  the  occasion  than 
just  what's  in  the  prayer-book,  for  that's  all  I  can  stand. 
I  can't  stand  prayer-book  with  the  variations,  now  I 
really  can't." 

"Well,  Jim,  what  makes  you  think  there  will  be 
prayer-book  with  the  variations?" 

"  Oh,  well,  I  attended  a  ritualistic  wedding  once,  and 
there  was  such  an  amount  of  processing  and  chanting, 
and  ancient  and  modern  improvements,  that  it  was  just 
like  a  show.  There  were  the  press  reporters  elbowing 
and  pushing  to  get  the  best  places  to  write  it  up  for  the 
papers,  and,  for  my  part,  I  think  it's  in  confounded  bad 
taste,  and  I  couldn't  stand  it;  you  know,  now,  I'm  a 
nervous  fellow,  and  if  Fve  got  to  take  part  in  the  exer 
cises,  they  '11  have  to  *  draw  it  mild,'  or  Allie  and  I  will 
have  to  secede  and  take  it  by  ourselves.  I  could  n't  go 
such  a  thing  as  that  wedding;  I  never  should  come  out 
alive." 

"Well,  Jim,  I  don't  believe  there's  any  reason  for 
apprehension.  In  the  first  place,  the  ceremony,  as  to  its 
mode  and  form,  always  is  supposed  to  be  conducted  ac- 


470  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

cording  to  the  preferences  of  the  bride's  family,  and  we 
all  of  us  should  be  opposed  to  anything  which  would 
draw  remark  and  comment,  as  being  singular  and  unusual 
on  such  an  occasion." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  Jim. 

"  And  then,  Jim,  Mr.  St.  John's  uncle,  Dr.  Gracey,  is 
to  perform  the  ceremony,  and  he  is  one  of  the  most  re 
spected  of  the  conservative  Episcopal  clergymen  in  New 
York ;  and  it  is  entirely  out  of  the  question  to  suppose 
that  he  would  take  part  in  anything  of  the  sort  you  fear, 
or  which  would  excite  comment  as  an  innovation.  Then, 
again,  I  think  Mr.  St.  John  himself  has  so  much  natural 
refinement  and  just  taste  that  he  would  not  wish  his  own 
wedding  to  become  a  theme  for  gossip  and  a  gazing  stock 
for  the  curious." 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  know  about  St.  John ;  I  was  a  little 
afraid  we  should  be  obliged  to  do  something  or  other, 
because  they  did  it  in  the  catacombs,  or  the  Middle 
Ages,  or  in  Edward  the  Sixth's  time,  or  some  such 
dodge.  I  thought  I'd  just  make  sure." 

"  Well,  I  think  Mr.  St.  John  has  gone  as  far  in  those 
directions  as  he  ever  will  go.  He  has  been  living  alone 
up  to  this  winter.  He  has  formed  his  ideas  by  himself 
in  solitude.  Now  he  will  have  another  half  to  himself; 
he  will  see  in  part  through  the  eyes,  and  feel  through  the 
heart,  of  a  sensible  and  discreet  woman — for  Angie  is 
that.  The  society  he  has  met  at  our  house  in  such  men 
as  Dr.  Campbell  and  others,  has  enlarged  his  horizon, — 
given  him  new  points  of  vision, — so  that  I  think  the  too 
great  tendencies  he  may  have  had  in  certain  directions 
have  been  insensibly  checked." 

"  I  wish  they  may,"  said  Jim,  "  for  he  is  a  good  fel 
low,  and  so  much  like  one  of  the  primitive  Christians 
that  I  really  want  him  to  get  all  the  credit  that  belongs 
to  him." 


EVA'S  CONSULTATIONS.  471 

"Oh,  well,  you'll  see,  Jim.  When  a  man  is  so  sincere 
and  good,  and  labors  with  a  good  wife  to  help  him,  you'll 
see  the  difference.  But  here  comes  little  Mrs.  Betsey, 
Jim.  I  promised  to  get  her  up  a  cap  for  the  occasion." 

"Well,  I'm  off;  only  be  sure  you  make  matters  secure 
about  the  ceremony,"  and  off  went  Jim,  and  in  came 
little  Mrs.  Betsey. 

"  It's  so  good  of  you,  dear  Mrs.  Henderson,  to  under 
take  to  make  me  presentable.  You  know  Dorcas  has  n't 
the  least  interest  in  these  things.  Dorcas  is  so  inde 
pendent,  she  never  cares  what  the  fashion  is.  Now, 
she  is  n't  doing  a  thing  to  get  ready.  She's  just  going 
in  that  satin  gown  that  she  had  made  twenty  years  ago, 
with  a  great  lace  collar  as  big  as  a  platter ;  and  she  sits 
there  just  as  easy,  reading  *  Pope's  Essay  on  Man,'  and 
here  I'm  all  in  a  worry  ;  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  like  to 
look  a  little  like  other  folks,  you  know.  I  do  n't  want 
people  to  think  I'm  a  queer  old  woman." 

"  Certainly,  it's  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world," 
said  Eva,  as  she  stepped  into  the  little  adjoining  work 
room,  and  brought  out  a  filmy  cap,  trimmed  with  the 
most  delicate  shade  of  rosy  lilac  ribbons.  "There!" 
she  said,  settling  it  on  Mrs.  Betsey's  head,  and  tying  a 
bow  under  her  chin,  "if  anybody  says  you're  not  a 
beauty  in  this,  I'd  like  to  ask  them  why?" 

"  I  know  it's  silly  at  my  age,  but  I  do  like  pretty 
things,"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  looking  at  herself  with  appro 
bation  in  the  glass,  "  and  all  the  more  that  it's  so  very 
kind  of  you,  dear  Mrs.  Henderson." 

"Me?  Oh,  I  like  to  do  it.  I'm  a  born  milliner," 
said  Eva. 

"  And  now  I  want  to  ask  a  favor.  Do  you  think  it 
would  do  for  us  to  take  our  Dinah  to  church  to  see  the 
ceremony.  I  do  n't  know  anybody  that  could  enjoy  it 
more,  and  Dinah  has  so  few  pleasures." 


472  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

"Why,  certainly.  Dinah!  my  faithful  adviser  and 
help  in  time  of  need  ?  Why,  of  course,  give  my  com 
pliments  to  her,  and  tell  her  I  shall  depend  on  seeing  her 
there." 

"Dinah  is  so  delighted  at  the  thought  that  your  sister 
and  Mr.  Fellows  are  coming  to  live  with  us,  she  is  busy 
cleaning  their  rooms,  and  does  it  with  a  will.  You 
know  Mr.  Fellows  has  just  that  gay,  pleasant  sort  of 
way  that  delights  all  the  servants,  and  she  says  your 
sister  is  such  a  beauty !" 

"  Well,  be  sure  and  tell  Dinah  to  come  to  the  wed 
ding,  and  she  shall  have  a  slice  of  the  cake  to  dream  on." 

"  I  think  I  shall  feel  so  much  safer  when  we  have  a 
man  in  the  house,"  continued  Mrs.  Betsey.  "  You  see 
we  have  so  much  silver,  and  so  many  things  of  that  kind, 
and  Dorcas  frightens  me  to  death,  because  she  will  have 
the  basket  lugged  up  into  our  room  at  night.  I  tell  her 
if  she'd  only  set  it  outside  in  the  entry,  then  if  the 
burglars  came  they  could  just  go  off  with  it,  without 
stopping  to  murder  us ;  but  if  it  was  in  our  room,  why, 
of  course,  they  would.  The  fact  is,  I  have  got  so 
nervous  about  burglars  that  I  am  up  and  down  two  or 
three  times  a  night." 

"  But  you  have  Jack  to  take  care  of  you." 

"  Jack  is  a  good  watch  dog — he's  very  alert;  but  the 
trouble  is,  he  barks  just  as  loud  when  there  is  n't  any 
thing  going  on  as  when  there  is.  Night  after  night,  that 
dog  has  started  us  both  up  with  such  a  report,  and  I'd 
go  all  over  the  house  and  find  nothing  there.  Some 
times  I  think  he  hears  people  trying  the  doors  or  win 
dows.  Altogether,  I  think  Jack  frightens  me  more  than 
he  helps,  though  I  know  he  does  it  all  for  the  best,  and  I 
tell  Dorcas  so  when  he  wakes  her  up.  You  know  expe 
rienced  people  always  do  say  that  a  small  dog  is  the  very 
safest  thing  you  can  have ;  but  when  Mr.  Fellows  comes 


EVA'S  CONSULTATION'S,  473 

I  shall  really  sleep  peaceably.  And  now,  Mrs.  Hender 
son,  you  do  n't  think  that  light  mauve  silk  of  mine  will 
be  too  young-looking  for  me  ?" 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Eva.  "Why  shouldn't  we  all 
look  as  young  as  we  can?" 

"  I  have  n't  worn  it  for  more  than  thirty  years ;  but  the 
silk  is  good  as  ever,  and  your  little  dress-maker  has  made 
it  over  with  an  over-skirt,  and  Dinah  is  delighted  with  it, 
and  says  it  makes  me  look  ten  years  younger!" 

"  Oh !  well  I  must  come  over  and  see  it  on  you." 

"Would  you  care?"  said  Mrs.  Betsey,  delighted. 
"  How  good  you  are;  and  then  I'll  show  you  the  toilette 
cushions  I've  been  making  for  the  dear  young  ladies;  and 
Dorcas  is  going  to  give  each  of  them  a  pair  of  real  old 
India  vases  that  have  been  in  the  family  ever  since  we 
can  remember." 

"Why,  you'll  be  robbing  yourselves." 

"  No,  indeed ;  it  would  be  robbing  ourselves  hot  to 
give  something,  after  all  the  kindness  you've  shown  us." 

And  Eva  went  over  to  the  neighboring  house  with 
Mrs.  Betsey ;  and  entered  into  all  the  nice  little  toilette 
details  with  her ;  and  delighted  Dinah  with  an  invitation 
in  person;  and  took  a  sympathizing  view  of  Dinah's  new 
bonnet  and  shawl,  which  she  pronounced  entirely  ade 
quate  to  the  occasion ;  and  thus  went  along,  sewing  little 
seeds  of  pleasure  to  make  her  neighbors  happier — seeds 
which  were  to  come  up  in  kind  thoughts  and  actions  on 
their  part  by  and  by. 


CHAPTER  LI II. 

WEDDING     PRESENTS. 

ST.  JOHN  and  Angie  were  together,  one  evening,  in 
the  room  that  had  been  devoted  to  the  reception  of 
the  wedding  presents.  This  room  had  been  Aunt  Maria's 
pride  and  joy,  and  already  it  had  assumed  quite  the 
appearance  of  a  bazar,  for  the  family  connections  of 
the  Van  Arsdels  was  large,  and  numbered  many  among 
the  richer  classes.  Arthur's  uncle,  Dr.  Gracey,  and  the 
family  connections  through  him  were  also  people  in 
prosperous  worldly  circumstances,  and  remarkably  well 
pleased  with  the  marriage  ;  and  so  there  had  been  a  great 
abundance  of  valuable  gifts.  The  door-bell  for  the  last 
week  or  two  had  been  ringing  incessantly,  and  Aunt 
Maria  had  eagerly  seized  the  parcels  from  the  servant 
and  borne  them  to  the  depository,  and  fixed  their  stations 
with  the  cards  of  the  givers  conspicuously  displayed. 

Of  course  the  reader  knows  that  there  were  the  usual 
amount  of  berry-spoons,  and  pie-knives,  and  crumb- 
scrapers  ;  of  tea-spoons  and  coffee-spoons ;  of  silver  tea- 
services;  of  bracelets  and  chains  and  studs  and  brooches 
and  shawl-pins  and  cashmere  shawls  and  laces.  Nobody 
could  deny  that  everything  was  arranged  so  as  to  make 
the  very  most  of  it. 

Angie  was  showing  the  things  to  St.  John,  in  one  of 
those  interminable  interviews  in  which  engaged  people 
find  so  much  to  tell  each  other. 

"  Really,  Arthur,"  she  said,  "  it  is  almost  too  much. 
Everybody  is  giving  to  me,  just  at  a  time  when  I  am  so 


WEDDING  PRESENTS.  475 

happy  that  I  need  it  less  than  ever  I  did  in  my  life. 
I  can't  help  feeling  as  if  it  was  more  than  my  share." 

Of  course  Arthur  did  n't  think  so ;  he  was  in  that 
mood  that  he  could  n't  think  anything  on  land  or  sea  was 
too  much  to  be  given  to  Angie. 

"  And  look  here,"  she  said,  pointing  him  to  a  stand 
which  displayed  a  show  of  needle-books  and  pincushions, 
and  small  matters  of  that  kind,  "  just  look  here — even 
the  little  girls  of  my  sewing-class  must  give  me  some 
thing.  That  needle-book,  little  Lottie  Price  made.  Where 
she  got  the  silk  I  do  n't  know,  but  it's  quite  touching. 
See  how  nicely  she's  done  it!  It  makes  me  almost  cry 
to  have  poor  people  want  to  make  me  presents." 

"  Why  should  we  deny  them  that  pleasure — the  great 
est  and  purest  in  the  world  ?"  said  St.  John.  "  It  is  more 
blessed  to  give  than  to  receive." 

"  Well,  then,  Arthur,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  was  thinking 
of.  I  would  n't  dare  tell  it  to  anybody  else,  for  they'd 
think  perhaps  I  was  making  believe  to  be  better  than  I 
was;  but  I  was  thinking  it  would  make  my  wedding 
brighter  to  give  gifts  to  poor,  desolate  people  who  really 
need  them  than  to  have  all  this  heaped  upon  me." 

Then  Arthur  told  her  how,  in  some  distant  ages  of 
faith  and  simplicity,  Christian  weddings  were  always 
celebrated  by  gifts  to  the  poor. 

"  Now,  for  example,"  said  Angie,  "  that  poor,  little, 
pale  dress-maker  that  Aunt  Maria  found  for  me, — she  has 
worked  day  and  night  over  my  things,  and  I  can't  help 
wanting  to  do  something  to  brighten  her  up.  She  has 
nothing  but  hard  work  and  no  holidays;  no  lover  to 
come  and  give  her  pretty  things,  and  take  her  to  Europe ; 
and  then  she  has  a  sick  mother  to  take  care  of — only 
think.  Now,  she  told  me,  one  day,  she  was  trying  to 
save  enough  to  get  a  sewing-machine." 

"Very  well,"  said  Arthur,  "if  you  want  to  give  her 


476  WE  AND   OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

one,  we'll  go  and  look  one  out  to-morrow  and  send  it  to 
her,  with  a  card  for  the  ceremony,  so  there  will  be  one 
glad  heart." 

"  Arthur,  you — " 

But  what  Angle  said  to  Arthur,  and  how  she  reward 
ed  him,  belongs  to  the  literature  of  Eden — it  cannot  be 
exactly  translated. 

Then  they  conferred  about  different  poor  families, 
whose  wants  and  troubles  and  sorrows  were  known  to 
those  two,  and  a  wedding  gift  was  devised  to  be  sent  to 
each  of  them;  and  there  are  people  who  may  believe 
that  the  devising  and  executing  of  these  last  deeds  of 
love  gave  Angie  and  St.  John  more  pleasure  than  all  the 
silver  and  jewelry  in  the  wedding  bazar. 

"  I  have  reserved  a  place  for  our  Sunday-school  to 
be  present  at  the  ceremony,"  said  Arthur;  "and  there  is 
to  be  a  nice  little  collation  laid  for  them  in  my  study ; 
and  we  must  go  in  there  a  few  minutes  after  the  cere 
mony,  and  show  ourselves  to  them,  and  bid  them  good- 
by  before  we  go  to  your  mother's." 

"  Arthur,  that  is  exactly  what  I  was  thinking  of.  I 
believe  we  think  the  same  things  always.  Now,  I  want 
to  say  another  thing.  You  wanted  to  know  what  piece 
of  jewelry  you  should  get  for  my  wedding  present." 

"Well,  darling?" 

"  Well,  I  have  told  Aunt  Maria  and  mamma  and  all 
of  them  that  your  wedding  gift  to  me  was  something  I 
meant  to  keep  to  myself;  that  I  would  not  have  it  put 
on  the  table,  or  shown,  or  talked  about.  I  did  this,  in  the 
first  place,  as  a  matter  of  taste.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  mar 
riage  gift  ought  to  be  something  sacred  between  us  two." 

"  Like  the  white  stone  with  the  new  name  that  no 
man  knoweth  save  him  that  receive th  it,"  said  St.  John. 

"  Yes ;  just  like  that.     Well,  then,  Arthur,  get  me  only 
a  plain  locket  with  your  hair  in  it,  and  give  all  the  rest 


WEDDING  PRESENTS,  477 

of  the  money  to  these  uses  we  talked  about,  and  I 
will  count  it  my  present.  It  will  be  a  pledge  to  me  that 
I  shall  not  be  a  hindrance  to  you  in  your  work,  but 
a  help ;  that  you  will  do  more  and  not  less  good  for 
having  me  for  your  wife." 

What  was  said  in  reply  to  this  was  again  in  the  super- 
angelic  dialect,  and  untranslatable ;  but  these  two  chil 
dren  of  the  kingdom  understood  it  gladly,  for  they  were, 
in  all  the  higher  and  nobler  impulses,  of  one  heart  and 
one  soul. 

"As  to  the  ceremony,  Arthur,"  said  Angle,  "  you 
know  how  very  loving  and  kind  your  uncle  has  been  to 
us.  He  has  been  like  a  real  father ;  and  since  he  is  to 
perform  it,  I  hope  there  will  be  nothing  introduced  that 
would  be  embarrassing  to  him  or  make  unnecessary  talk 
and  comment.  Just  the  plain,  usual  service  of  the 
Prayer-book  will  be  enough,  will  it  not?" 

"  Just  as  you  say,  my  darling ;  this,  undoubtedly,  is 
your  province." 

"  I  think,"  said  Angie,  "  that  there  are  many  things 
in  themselves  beautiful  and  symbolic,  and  that  might  be 
full  of  interest  to  natures  like  yours  and  mine,  that  had 
better  be  left  alone  if  they  offend  the  prejudices  of 
others,  especially  of  dear  and  honored  friends." 

"  I  do  n't  know  but  you  are  right.  Angie ;  at  any  rate, 
our  wedding,  so  far  as  that  is  concerned,  shall  have  noth 
ing  in  it  to  give  offense  to  any  one." 

"Sometimes  I  think,"  said  Angie,  "we  please  God 
by  giving  up,  for  love's  sake,  little  things  we  would 
like  to  do  in  his  service,  more  than  by  worship." 

"Well,  dear,  that  principle  has  a  long  reach.  We 
will  talk  more  about  it  by  and  by;  but  now,  good 
night! — or  your  mother  will  be  scolding  you  again  for 
sitting  up  late.  Somehow,  the  time  does  slip  away  so 
when  we  get  to  talking." 


CHAPTER  LIV. 


WELL,  the  day  of  days  came  at  last,  and  a  fairer 
May  morning  never  brightened  the  spire  of  old 
Trinity  or  woke  the  sparrows  of  the  park.  Even  the 
dingy  back  garden  of  the  Vanderheyden  house  had  bub 
bled  out  in  golden  crocus  and  one  or  two  struggling 
hyacinths,  and  the  old  lilacs  by  the  chamber  windows 
were  putting  forth  their  first  dusky,  sweet-scented  buds. 
In  about  half  a  dozen  houses,  everybody  was  up  early, 
with  heads  full  of  wedding  dresses,  and  wedding  fusses, 
and  wedding  cake.  Aunt  Maria,  like  a  sergeant  of  police, 
was  on  hand,  as  wide  awake  and  as  fully  possessed  of 
the  case  as  it  was  possible  for  mortal  woman  to  be. 
She  was  everywhere, — seeing  to  everything,  reproving, 
rebuking,  exhorting,  and  pushing  matters  into  line  gen 
erally. 

This  was  her  hour  of  glory,  and  she  was  mistress  ot 
the  situation.  Mrs.  Van  Arsdel  was  sweet  and  loving, 
bewildered  and  tearful ;  and  wandered  hither  and  thither 
doing  little  bits  of  things  and  remorselessly  snubbed  by 
her  energetic  sister,  who,  after  pushing  her  out  of  the  way 
several  times,  finally  issued  the  order:  "Nellie,  I  do 
wish  you'd  go  to  your  room  and  keep  quiet.  I  under 
stand  what  I  want,  and  you  do  n't." 

The  two  brides,  each  in  their  respective  dressing- 
rooms,  were  receiving  those  attentions  which  belong  to 
the  central  figures  of  the  tableau. 


MARRIED  AND  A'.  479 

Marie,  the  only  remaining  unmarried  sister,  who  had 
been  spending  the  winter  in  Philadelphia,  had  charge, 
as  dressing-maid,  of  one  bride,  and  Eva  of  the  other. 
There  was  the  usual  amount  of  catastrophes — laces  that 
broke  in  critical  moments,  when  somebody  had  to  be 
sent  tearing  out  distractedly  for  another;  gloves  that 
split  across  the  back  on  trying;  coiffures  that  came 
abominably  late,  after  keeping  everybody  waiting,  and 
then  had  to  be  pulled  to  pieces  and  made  all  over;  in 
short,  no  one  item  of  the  delightful  jumble  of  confusions, 
incident  to  a  wedding,  was  missing. 

The  little  chapel  was  dressed  with  flowers,  and  was 
a  bower  of  sweetness ;  and,  as  St.  John  had  planned, 
there  was  space  reserved  for  the  Sunday-school  children 
and  the  regular  attendants  of  the  mission. 

Besides  those,  there  was  a  goodly  select  show  of  what 
Aunt  Maria  looked  upon  as  the  choice  jewels  of  rank 
and  fashion. 

Dr.  Gracey  performed  the  double  ceremony  with 
great  dignity  and  solemnity;  but  the  reporters,  who 
fought  for  good  places  to  see  the  show,  and  Miss  Gusher 
and  Miss  Vapors,  were  disappointed.  There  was  only 
the  plain  old  Church  of  England  service — neither  less 
nor  more. 

Mrs.  Van  Arsdel,  and  other  soft-hearted  ladies,  in 
different  degrees  of  family  connection,  did  the  proper 
amount  of  tender  weeping  upon  their  best  laced  pocket 
handkerchiefs ;  and  everybody  said  the  brides  looked  so 
lovely. 

Miss  Dorcas  and  Mrs.  Betsey  had  excellent  situations 
to  see  the  whole,  and  Dinah,  standing  right  behind  them, 
broke  out  into  ejaculations  of  smothered  rapture,  from 
time  to  time,  in  Mrs.  Betsey's  ear.  Dinah  was  so  boiling 
over  with  delight  that,  but  for  this  tolerated  escape-valve, 
there  might  have  been  some  explosion. 


480  WE  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

Just  as  the  ceremonies  had  closed,  Mrs.  Betsey  heard 
Dinah  whispering  hoarsely : 

"Good  Lor'!  if  dar  ain't  Jack!" 

And  sure  enough,  Jack  was  there  in  the  church,  sitting 
up  as  composedly  as  a  vestryman,  and  apparently  enjoy 
ing  the  spectacle.  When  one  of  the  ushers  approached 
to  take  him  out,  he  raised  himself  on  his  haunches  and 
waved  his  paws  with  affability. 

Jim  caught  sight  of  him  just  as  the  wedded  party 
were  turning  from  the  altar  to  leave  the  church,  and  the 
sight  was  altogether  too  much  for  his  risibility. 

The  fact  was  that  Jack  had  been  the  subject  of  great 
discussion  and  an  elaborate  locking  up  that  morning. 
But  divining  an  intention  on  the  part  of  his  mistresses 
to  go  somewhere,  he  had  determined  not  to  be  left.  So 
he  had  leaped  out  of  a  window  upon  a  back  shed,  and 
thence  to  the  ground,  and  had  followed  the  coach  at  dis 
creet  distance,  and  so  was  "  in  at  the  death." 

Well,  courteous  reader,  a  marriage  is  by  common  con 
sent  the  end  of  a  story,  and  we  have  given  you  two. 
".We  and  Our  Neighbors,"  therefore,  are  ready  to  receive 
your  congratulations. 


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H.   W.   Beecher  (continued}. 

Papers:  or,  Experiences  of  Art  and  Nature.  New 
Edition,  with  many  additional  Papers.  Uniform  Edition  of  the 
Author's  Works.  I  vol.  12010.  Cloth,  $i  75. 


"  We  have  nothing  in  the  way  of  de 
scriptive  writing,  not  even  the  best 
sketches  of  Washington  Irving,  that 
exceeds  in  richness  of  imagery  and  per 
spicuity  of  statement  these  *  Star  Pa 
pers.'  " — Methodist  Home  Journal. 


"A  book  to  be  read  and  re-read,  and 
always  with  a  fresh  sense  of  enjoyment." 
— Portland  Press. 

"  So  full  of  rural  life,  so  sparkling  with 
cheerfulness,  so  holy  in  their  tenderness, 
and  so  brave  in  nobility  of  thought." — 
Liberal  Christian. 

Lectures  to  Young  Men  on  Various  Important  Subjects. 
New  Edition,  with  additional  Lectures.  Uniform  Edition  of 
the  Author's  Works.  I  vol.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $i  50. 


"  Wise  and  elevating  in  tone,  pervaded 
by  earnestness,  and  well  fitted  for  its 
mission  to  improve  and  benefit  the  youth 
of  the  land." — Boston  Commonwealth. 

"  Written  with  all  the  vigor  of  style 
and  beaut  "  '  '  *  ' 

ize  everyt 


en  with  all  tne  vigor  ot  style 
y  of  language  which  character- 
hing  from  the  pen  of  this  re 


markable  man.  They  are  a  series  of 
fearless  dissertations  upon  every-day 
subjects,  conveyed  with  a  power  of  elo 
quence  and  a  practical  illustration  so 
unique  as  to  be  oftentimes  startling." — 
Philadelphia  Enquirer. 


Pleasant  TalJc  About  Fruits,  Flowers,  and  Farming. 

New  Edition,  with  much  additional  matter.     Uniform  Edition 
of  the  Author's  Works.     I  vol.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $2  oo. 

A  delightful  book.     The  poetry  and  prose  of  Beecher's  Farm  and 
Garden  experiences. 

"Not  merely  readable  and   instruc-    tive,  but  singularly  fascinating   in  its 

magnetic  style."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

Norwood  :  or,  Village  Life  in  New  England.  A  Novel. 
Uniform  Edition  of  the  Author's  Works  ;  also,  uniform  with 
J.  B.  F.  &  Co.'s  Novel  Series.  I  vol.  I2mo.  Illustrated,  $2  oo. 

"Embodies  more  of  the  high  art  of 
fiction  than  any  half  dozen  of  the  best 
novels  of  the  best  authors  of  the  day. 


It  will  bear  to  be  read  and  re-read  as 
often  as  Dickens's  l  Dombey  '  or  '  David 


Copperfield.'  " — A  Ibany  Eveningjour- 
nal. 

"  The  book  is  wholesome  and  delight 
ful,  to  be  taken  up  again  and  yet  again 
with  fresh  pleasure." — Chicago  Stand 
ard, 

Lecture  Room  Talks.  A  Series  of  Familiar  Discourses,  on 
Themes  of  Christian  Experience.  Phonographically  reported 
by  T.  J.  Ellinwood.  Uniform  Edition  of  the  Author's  Works. 
I  vol.  I2mo.  With  Steel  Portrait.  Price,  $i  75. 


"  It  is  easy  to  see  why  the  old-fash 
ioned  prayer-meeting  has  been  replaced 
by  that  eager  and  crowded  assembly 


which  throngs  the  Plymouth  Lecture 
Room  each  Friday  evening."  —  New 
York  Evangelist. 


27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


Works  Published  by  J.  B.  Ford  S-  Co. 


H.  W.  Beecher  (continued'}. 

The  Overture  of  Angels.  A  Series  of  Pictures  of  the  Angelic 
Appearances  Attending  the  Nativity  of  Our  Lord.  A  Chapter 
from  the  "  Life  of  Christ. "  Ilhtstrated.  I  vol.  I2mo.  $200. 

A  beautiful  and  characteristically  interesting  treatment  of  all  the 
events  recorded  in  the  Gospels  as  occurring  about  the  time  of  the 
Nativity.  Full  of  poetic  imagery,  beauty  of  sentiment,  and  vivid 
pictures  of  the  life  of  the  Orient  in  that  day. 

characteristic  of  its  author." — Worces- 


u  The  style,  the  sentiment,  and  faith 
fulness  to  the  spirit  of  the  Biblical  record 
with  which  the  narrative  is  treated  are 


ter  (Mass.)  Spy. 

"  A  perfect  fragment."—^.  Y.  World. 


English  and  American   Speeches  on  Politics,  War,  and 
various  miscellaneous  topics.     Uniform  Edition  of  the  Author's 
Works.     I  vol.     I2mo.     In  preparation. 
This  will  include  all  of  the  more  important  of  Mr.    Beecher's 

Speeches  which  have  been  preserved. 

Eyes  and  Ears  :  or,  Thoughts  as  They  Occur,  by  One  Who 
Keeps  his  Eyes  and  Ears  Open.  New  Edition.  Uniform  Edi 
tion  of  the  Author's  Works.  I  vol.  I2mo.  Cloth.  In  preparation. 

Royal  Truths.  This  is  a  selected  gathering  of  papers,  passages, 
illustrations,  descriptions,  from  sermons,  speeches,  prayer-meeting 
discourses,  writings,  etc.,  which  has  had  a  large  sale  both  in 
England  and  America.  The  New  Edition  will  be  enlarged  by 
the  addition  of  much  new  matter  of  interest,  Uniform  Edition 
of  the  Author's  Works.  I  vol.  I2mo.  In  preparation. 

Views  and  Experiences  of  Religious  Matters.  Origin 
ally  published  as  a  second  collection  of  religious  "  Star  Papers," 
these  admirable  and  helpful  articles  will  be  added  to  by  others, 
heretofore  unpublished.  Uniform  Edition  of  the  Author's 
Works.  I  vol.  I2mo.  In  preparation. 


Thomas  K.  Beecher. 

Our  Seven  Churches.    Eight  Lectures.     I  vol.      i6mo.    Paper, 
50  cts. ;  Cloth,  $  i  oo. 

A  most  valuable  exponent  of  the  doctrines  of  the  leading  religious 
denominations,  and  a  striking  exhibition  of  the  author's  magnanimity 
and  breadth  of  loving  sympathy. 


"  The  sermons  are  written  in  a  style 
at  once  brilliant,  epigrammatic,  and 
readable." — Utica  Herald. 

"This  little  book  has  created  con 
siderable  discussion  amonsf  the  religious 
journals,  and  will  be  read  with  interest 
by  all."— Phila.  Ledger. 


"  There  is  hardly  a  page  which  does 
not  offer  a  fresh  thought,  a  genial  touch 
of  humor,  or  a  suggestion  at  which  the 
reader's  heart  leaps  up  with  grateful 
surprise  that  a  minister  belonging  to  a 
sect  can  think  and  speak  so  generously 
and  nobly." — Milwaukee  Sentinel. 


27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


Works  Published  by  J.  B.  Ford  <5r»  Co.  5 

A.  H.  Bogardus. 
Field,  Cover,  and  Trap  Shooting.    By  the  Champion  Wing 

Shot  of  America.     Edited  by  Chas.  J.  Foster.     I  vol.     I2mo. 

With  Steel  Portrait  of  the  Author,   and  an  Engraving   of  the 

Champion  Medal.     Cloth,  $2  oo. 

A  compendium  of  many  years  of  experience,  giving  hints  for  skilled 
marksmen  and  instructions  for  young  sportsmen,  describing  the 
haunts  and  habits  of  game  birds,  flight  and  resorts  of  water  fowl, 
breeding  and  breaking  of  dogs,  and  everything  of  interest  to  the 
sportsman.  The  author  is  "  champion  wing-shot  of  America,  who 
knows  a  gun  as  Hiram  Woodruff  knew  a  horse.  And  he  has  the 
same  careful  and  competent  editor  who  put  Woodruff's  "  Trotting 
Horse  of  America  into  shape — Chas.  J.  Foster,  so  many  years  sport 
ing  editor  of  Wilkes'  Spirit  of  the  Times. 


"  No  sportsman  can  peruse  this  book 
without  profit  and  instruction  ;  while  to 
the  young  beginner  with  the  gun,  and  to 
the  amateur  who  can  spend  but  a  few 


months  in  the  year  in  this  healthful  and 
delightful  pursuit,  it  will  be  invaluable." 
—Wilkes'  Sf>ir it. 


Henry  Churton. 

Toinette  :   A  Tale  of  Transition.     I  vol.     I2mo.     Extra  Cloth, 
Fancy  Stamped  Ink  and  Gilt  Side.     $1.50. 

Not  only  a  brilliant  picture  of  individual  life,  full  of  stirring  scenes 
and  emotional  characters,  but  a  graphic  delineation  of  slave-life  and 
emancipation,  by  one  who  lived  under  the  old  regime  at  the  South, 
and  saw  it  give  place  to  the  new.  Companion  piece  to  "  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin,"  this  powerful  novel  finishes  what  that  great  work 
began. 

situations  and  delineations."  —  Chicago 


li  Clearly  conceived  and  told  with 

power There  is  not  a  prosy 

chapter  in  the  book.  The  author  grasps 
the  elements  of  his  story  with  a  firm 
hand  and  combines  them  into  vivid 
scenes." — Liberal  Christian. 

"  Absolutely   thrilling  in  some  of  its 


Evening  Journal. 

"A  remarkable  book.  It  is  fascina 
ting,  thrilling,  and  its  scenes  are  vivid 
as  the  lightnings." — Atlanta  (Ga.,) 
Methodist  Advocate. 


Mrs.  S.  M.  Davis. 
TJie  Life  and   Times  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney.    A  New 

and  Revised  Edition,  with  Index,  etc.  Three  steel  plates  ;  Por 
trait  of  Sidney  ;  View  of  Penshurst  Castle  ;  and  Fac-simile  of 
Sidney's  manuscript.  I2mo.  Silk  Cloth,  Beveled  Boards, 
Stamped  with  Sidney's  Coat-of-Arms  in  Ink  and  Gold,  $i  50. 

"  An  elaborate  sketch  of  a  most  inter-         "  Its  binding  is  exquisitely  chaste."— 
esting  character."  —  Chicago  Evening    N.Y.  World. 

Journal.  "  Beautifully  complete  in   every  de 

tail." — New  Haven  Journal  &  Courier. 

27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


6  Works  Published  by  J.  B.  Ford  6-  Co. 

Edward  Eggleston. 

The  Circuit  Rider  :  A  Tale  of  the  Heroic  Age.  Author  of 
" The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster"  etc.  Illustrated  with  over  thirty 
characteristic  drawings  by  G.  G.  White  and  Sol  Eytinge.  i  vol. 
I2mo.  Extra  Cloth,  Gilt,  and  Ink-Stamped  Covers,  $i  75. 

This  story  is  exciting  widespread  interest,  both  as  a  powerful 
novel  and  genuine  love-story,  and  as  a  graphic  picture  of  the  West  in 
the  adventurous  days  of  saddle-bags  and  circuit-riding  preachers. 


'  The  breezy  freshness  of  the  Western 
prairie  blended  with  the  refinements  of 
literary  culture.  It  is  alive  with  the 
sound  of  rushing  streams  and  the  echoes 
of  the  forest,  but  shows  a  certain  grace 
ful  self-possession  which  betrays  the 
presence  of  the  artist's  power." — N.  Y. 
Tribune. 


44  It  is  his  best  work  ;  a  grand  story  ;  a 
true  picture  of  the  past  and  of  itinerant 
life  in  the  old  times  of  simplicity  and 
hardship.''— j\r  Y.  Methodist. 

"The  best  American  story,  and  the 
most  thoroughly  American  one,  that  has 
appeared  for  years."— Phila.  Evening 
Bulletin. 


Ferdinand  Fabbre. 

The  Abbe    Tigrane,   Candidate  for  the  Papacy.     Translated 
from  the  French  by  Rev.    Leonard  Woolsey    Bacon.      i8mo. 
Cloth,  $i  50. 
One  of  the  most  brilliant  satires  of  the  day.     An  entertaining  and 

exciting   tale,  giving  the  mode  of  French  ecclesiastical  life  and  of 

Romish  political  intrigue  in  Europe. 


Rev.  T.  A.  Goodwin,  A.M. 

The  Mode  of  Man's  Immortality :  or,  The  When,  Where 
and  How  of  the  Future  Life.  Author  of  "  The  Perfect  Man" 
and  late  Editor  of  '•''The  Indiana  Christian  Advocate.'"1  I  vol. 
I2mo.  Cloth,  $i  25. 


41  Certainly  shows  with  great  force  the 
well-nigh  insuperable  difficulties  attend 
ing  the  common  opinions  of  the  resur 
rection  of  the  actual  body  that  is  placed 


in  the  dust,  and  develops  quite  a  con 
sistent  and  interesting  theory  in  refer 
ence  to  the  nature  of  the  resurrection 
life." — Zion's  Herald. 


Robertson  Gray. 

Brave   Hearts.     A  Novel.      By  Robertson  Gray  (R.  W.  Ray 
mond).      I  vol.     I2mo.     Illustrated.     Cloth.  $i  75. 

A  characteristic  American  tale,  with  Illustrations  by  Darley,  Ste 
phens,  Frank  Beard,  and  Kendrick. 


14  About  as  pure,  breezy,  and  withal, 
readable  a  story  of  American  life  as  we 
have  met  with  this  long  time." — Con- 
gregationalist. 


44  Its  pictures  of  the  strange  life  of 
those  early  California  days  are  simply 
admirable,  quite  as  good  as  anything 
Bret  Harte  has  written." — Lit.  World. 


27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


Works  Published*  by  J.  B.  Ford  &  Co. 


Grace  Greenwood. 

New  Life  in  New  Lands.  Notes  of  Travel  Across  the 
American  Continent,  from  Chicago  to  the  Pacific  and  Back. 
I  vol.  I2mo.  $2  oo. 

This  is  a  gathered  series  of  letters,  racy,  brilliant,  piquant  ;  full  of 
keen  observation  and  pungent  statement  of  facts,  picturesque  in  de 
lineation  of  scenes  on  the  plains,  in  the  mountains,  and  along  the 
sea. 


44  Among  the  best  of  the  author's  pro 
ductions,  and  every  way  delightful." — 
Boston  Post. 

'4  The  late  William  H.  Seward  char 
acterized  her  account  of  Mormons  and 
Mormonism  as  the  most  graphic  and 
trustworthy  he  had  ever  read.  — Meth 
odist  Home  Journal. 


4  Grace  always  finds  lots  of  things  no 
one  else  would  see  ;  and  she  has  a  happy 


knack  of 
cities  an 
across 
reader's  e 


picking  up  the  mountains  and 
d  big  tr 
ti 
It's  very  convenient."  — 


big  trees  and  tossing  them 
co 

eyes. 
Buffalo  Express. 


Heads  and  Tails  ;  Studies  and  Stories  of  Pets.  Square  i6mo. 
Illustrated.  Extra  Cloth,  Beveled  Boards,  Elaborate  Gilt  and 
Ink-Stamped  Sides,  Gilt  Edges,  $2  oo. 


14  It  consists  of  a  dozen  or  more  of  her 
delightfully  bright  sketches,  mostly  hav 
ing  the  charm  of  personal  experiences, 
in  which  she  pictures  in  her  own  inimi 
table  way,  so  full  of  wit,  of  pathos,  of 
good  sense,  of  tenderness,  and  of  real 
rollicking  fun,  her  own  adventures,  or 
those  of  other  young  and  old  folks  who 


love  animals. 


The  stories  are 


told  in  the  author's  happiest  style." — 
Christian  Union. 

"  Grace  Greenwood  is  gifted  with  a 
special  knack  at  story-telling  for  young 
folks,  and  Heads  and  Tails,  with  its 
stories  of  pet  birds,  cats,  etc.,  is  a  delight 
ful  book.  — Chicago  Advance. 

44  We  don't  know  where  there  is  pleas- 
anter  reading  than  in  these  stories  of 
pets." — Boston  Commonwealth, 


Rev.  S.  B.  Halliday. 

Winning  Souls.     Sketches  and  Incidents  During  Forty  Years 
of  Pastoral  Work.     ivol.      I2mo.     Cloth,  $1  OO. 

The  author  of  this  volume  for  some  time  past  has  been,  and  now 
is,  engaged  as  assistant  in  the  pastoral  labors  of  Plymouth  Church, 
Brooklyn  (Rev.  H.  W.  Beecher's),  where,  in  visiting  among  the  sick, 
the  poor,  and  the  afflicted  of  that  large  parish,  he  is  continually  en 
countering  new  and  interesting  phases  of  heart-life.  These  simple 
records  of  scenes  among  his  earlier  labors  possess  a  peculiar  interest. 


44  Full  of  valuable  suggestions  to  min 
isters  in  the  department  of  active  duty." 
—Methodist  Recorder. 

44  The  book  is  tenderly  written,  and 


many  of  its  pathetic  scenes  will  be  read 
with  moistened  eyes.  We  commend  the 
book  to  pastors  and  people." — Boston 
Christian  Era. 


The  Little  Street-Sweeper  :  or,  Life  among  the  Poor,     i  vol. 
I2mo.     Illustrated.     In  preparation. 


27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


8  Works  Published  by  J.  B.  Ford  6-  Co. 

Joseph  W.  Long. 

American    Wild -Fowl  Shooting,    i  vol.     i2mo.    Illus 
trated.     Fancy  Stamped  Cloth,  $2  oo. 

A  book  of  practical  specific  instruction  as  to  the  different  species, 
habits,  haunts  and  pursuits  of  wild-fowl,  the  building  and  use  of 
blinds,  boats,  decoys,  &c.,  the  training  of  water-retrievers,  and  many 
miscellaneous  hints  of  great  value  to  hunters  of  wild  game-fowl. 
Full  of  admirable  descriptions,  adventure,  &c.,  &c.  The  only  book 
of  the  kind  in  the  English  Language, 

"  We  know  of  no  book  that  treats  so  wild-fowl  and  the  methods  of  hunting 
fully  as  this  of  the  habits  of  our  inland  them." — Phila.  Enquirer. 


Amelia  Perrier. 

A  Good  Match.     A  Novel.     Author  of  "  Mea  Culpa?     i  vol. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  $i  50. 
A  clever  and  amusing  Novel,  agreeably  written,  racy,  and  lively. 

"  A  very  readable  love  story,  tenderly  I      "  The  characters  appear  and  act  with 
told." — Hearth  and  Home.  \  a  real  life." — Providence  Press. 


S.  S.  Randall,  A.M. 

{Superintendent  of  Public  Education  in  New  York  City.} 

History  of  the  State  of  New  York,  from  the  Date  of  the 
Discovery  and  Settlements  on  Manhattan  Island  to  the  Present 
Time.  A  Text-Book  for  High  Schools,  Academies,  and  Col 
leges.  I  vol.  I2mo.  Illustrated.  Cloth,  $i  75. 

Officially  adopted  by  the  Boards  of  Education  in  the  cities  of  New 
York,  Brooklyn,  and  Jersey  City,  for  use  in  the  Public  Schools  ;  and 
in  Private  Schools  throughout  the  State. 


Rossiter  W.  Raymond,  Ph.  D. 

U.S.  Commissioner  Mining  Statistics  ;  Preset.  Am.  Inst.  Mining  En 
gineers  ;  Editor  Engineering  and  Mining  Journal;  Author  of 

"Mines^  Mills,  and  Furnaces^  etc.,  etc. 

SUver  and  Gold  :  An  Account  of  the  Mining  and  Metallurgical 
Industry  of  the  United  States,  with  reference  chiefly  to  the 
Precious  Metals.  I  vol.  8vo.  Cloth,  $3  50. 

"Valuable  and  exhaustive  work  on  a        11A  repository  of  much  valuable  cur- 
theme  of  great  import  to  the  world  of    rent  information:" — N.  Y.  Tribune. 
industry." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


Works  Published  by  J.  B.  Ford  &  Co. 


R.   W,   Raymond  (continued}. 

Mining  Industry  of  the  States  and  Territories  West 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains ;  including  Descriptions  of  Quartz, 
Placer,  and  Hydraulic  Mining ;  Amalgamation,  Concentration, 
Smelting,  etc.  Illustrated  with  nearly  one  hundred  Engravings 
and  Maps,  and  a  Colored  Geological  Map  of  the  United  States. 
I  vol.  8vo.  Cloth,  $4  50. 

"  Recognized  in  this  country  and  in  I  and  interesting  to  a  remarkable  de- 
Europe  as  professionally  authoritative  |  gree." — Washington  Chronicle. 

The  Man  in  the  Moon  and  Other  People.  Square  i6mo., 
Illustrated.  Extra  Cloth,  beveled  boards,  handsome  gilt  and 
ink  stamped  sides,  gilt  edges,  $2  oo. 

Twenty  of  Ros.  Raymond's  best  stories,  some  published  before, 
others  not.  They  embrace  Fairy  Stories,  Wonder  Stories,  Christ 
mas  Stories,  Thanksgiving  Stories,  Stories  of  Adventure,  of  War, 
of  Love,  Stories  about  Dogs,  about  Birds,  about  Boys  and  about 
Girls — and  all  bright,  witty,  engaging  and  delightful. 

The  Brooklyn  Eagle  says :  "  His  tales  j  wit,  delicate  fancy,  and  admirable  good 
have  won  great  popularity  by  their  |  sense." 


The  Poetry  of  Pets. 

preparation. 


Sarah  Bridges  Stebbins. 

I  vol.     Square  I2mo.     Illustrated.     In 


Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

My   Wife  and   I:    Or,  Harry  Henderson's  History.     A  Novel. 
Illustrated.    I  vol.    I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.75. 

This  charming  novel  is,  in  some  respects,  Mrs.  Stowe's  most 
thoughtful  and  complete  book.  It  is  eminently  a  book  for  the  times, 
giving  the  author's  individual  ideas  about  the  much-vexed  Woman 
Question,  including  marriage,  divorce,  suffrage,  legislation,  and  all 
the  rights  claimed  by  the  clajnorous. 


"  A  capital  story,  in  which  fashionable 
follies  are  shown  up,  fast  young  ladies 
weighed  in  the  balance  and  found  want 
ing,  and  the  value  of  true  worth  ex 
hibited.'  ' — Portia  nd  A  rgus. 


u  Always  bright,  piquant,  and  enter 
taining,  with  an  occasional  touch  of  ten 
derness,  strong  because  subtle,  keen  in 
sarcasm,  full  of  womanly  logic  directed 
against  unwomanly  tendencies."— Bos 
ton  Journal. 


27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


10 


Works  Published  by  J.  B.  Ford  &•  Co. 


H.   B.   StOWC   (continued). 

We  and  Our  Neighbors  :  Or,  The  Records  of  an  Unfashion 
able  Street.  A  Sequel  to  "  My  Wife  and  I."  i  vol.  Illustrated 
by  Alfred  Fredericks.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $i  75. 

As  fresh,  witty  and  charming  in  style  as    all    of  Mrs.    Stowe's 
works  are. 


A  Volume  of  Religious  Meditative  Articles,  very  helpful 
and  spiritual  in  their  tone.     In  preparation. 


T.  S.  Verdi,  A.M.,  M.D. 

Maternity  :  A  Popular  Treatise  for  Wives  and  Mothers. 
edition.     I  vol.     I2mo.     $2  25. 


Fifth 


This  book  has  arisen  from  a  want  felt  in  the  author's  own  practice, 
as  a  monitor  to  young  wives,  a  guide  to  young  mothers,  and  an  as 
sistant  to  the  family  physician.  It  deals  skillfully,  sensibly  and  deli 
cately  with  the  perplexities  of  married  life,  giving  information  which 
women  must  have,  either  in  conversation  with  physicians  or  from 
such  a  source  as  this.  Plain  and  intelligible,  but  without  offence  to 
the  most  fastidious  taste,  the  style  of  this  book  must  commend  it  to 
careful  perusal.  It  treats  of  the  needs,  dangers,  and  alleviations  of 
the  holy  duties  of  maternity,  and  gives  extended,  detailed  instruc 
tions  for  the  care  and  medical  treatment  of  infants  and  children 
throughout  all  the  perils  of  early  life. 


"  The  author  deserves  great  credit  for 
his  labor,  and  the  book  merits  an  ex 
tensive  circulation." — U.S.  Medical  and 
Surgical  Journal  (Chicago). 

"  We  hail  the  appearance  of  this  work 
with  true  pleasure.  It  is  dictated  by  a 
pure  and  liberal  spirit,  and  will  be  a  real 
boon  to  many  a  young  mother." — A  mer- 
ican  Medical  Observer  (Detroit?) 


"There  are  few  intelligent  mothers 
who  will  not  be  benefited  by  reading 
and  keeping  by  them  for  frequent  coun 
sel  a  volume  so  rich  in  valuable  sug 
gestions.  With  its  tables,  prescriptions, 
and  indexes  at  the  end,  this  book  ought 
to  do  much  good." — Hearth  and  Home. 


27  Park  Place,  New  York. 
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